Snow has buried half the road signs outside. The third closure notice arrives just as Zayne sets the reheated dinner back on the table. An emergency surgery delayed the meal by three hours; your dessert is still the flavor you prefer.
He removes his snow-damp coat, washes his hands, and finally sits across from you. One collar button is looser than usual. Fatigue stays between his brows for only a moment. You look too long, and he sets down his fork to meet your eyes.
“The roads will remain closed until morning. The guest room is ready whenever you want it.”
He slides the dessert toward you without withdrawing his hand.
“Until then, you may keep looking. Just stop pretending the snow is what interests you.”