Mara woke to the sound of laughter.
It startled her so badly she sat upright, heart pounding, the remnants of sleep clinging to her thoughts like fog. For a moment, she didn't recognize it light, unfamiliar, threaded with warmth.
Then she realized it wasn't hers.
She checked the time. 8:17 a.m.
The laughter drifted in again, followed by a man's voice Julien's lower, steadier, edged with amusement she hadn't heard from him before. The sound carried from the street below, rising through the slightly open window.
Mara swung her legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room, pulling the curtain back just enough to see.
Julien stood outside the building, snow crunching beneath his boots. He was speaking to a child no older than eight bundled in a red coat that swallowed her small frame. She said something animatedly, waving her arms, and Julien laughed again, genuine and unguarded.
Mara froze.
The sound hit her harder than his grief confession had.
People rarely laughed like that if they were broken all the way through.
She stepped back from the window, irritation prickling under her skin. She didn't like surprises. Didn't like finding new dimensions in people she'd already cataloged as safe but distant.
When she entered the kitchen ten minutes later, Julien was there, pouring coffee. He looked up, startled again he startled easily, she was beginning to notice.
"Morning," he said.
"You're in a good mood," she replied.
He smiled faintly. "I suppose I am."
She poured herself coffee, her movements sharp, deliberate. "Who was the child?"
His smile softened. "My niece. She lives two buildings over with my sister. I walk her to school when I can."
That explained the laughter. It didn't explain the twist in Mara's chest.
"You didn't mention family," she said.
"You didn't ask."
Fair.
She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "This is burnt."
"I tried," he said mildly. "I failed."
Something loosened unexpectedly in her chest. "You did."
They shared a look brief, unguarded.
Dangerous.
Julien cleared his throat. "The town square opens the winter market today."
Her shoulders tensed immediately. "I don't do crowds."
"It's small," he said. "Local. Not… festive in the aggressive sense."
She shot him a look. "There is no such thing."
He smiled again, then sobered. "You don't have to come. I just thought I'd mention it."
That was how he did things, she realized. Invitations without pressure. Doors left open without expectation.
She hated how effective it was.
"I have work," she said.
He nodded. "Of course."
She waited for disappointment. It didn't come.
After breakfast, Mara retreated into her paperwork, losing herself in clauses and legal logic until the world shrank back into something manageable. She worked until her eyes burned and her shoulders ached, until hunger crept in unnoticed.
By the time she looked up, afternoon light slanted across the kitchen floor.
Julien was gone.
Again, the faint disappointment surfaced before she could bury it.
She shut her laptop with more force than necessary and stood, pacing once before stopping. She told herself she needed air. That the apartment was too quiet.
She pulled on her coat and stepped outside.
The town square buzzed with muted energy. Wooden stalls lined the cobblestone paths, selling bread, wine, scarves, carved ornaments. Music drifted lazily through the air not celebratory, not mournful. Just present.
Mara moved through the crowd cautiously, shoulders tight. She bought nothing. Touched nothing. Observed.
Until she saw Julien.
He stood near a stall selling old books, his head bent slightly as he flipped through a worn paperback. He looked different here less guarded, less contained. Like the town had softened him in ways she hadn't expected.
He noticed her almost immediately.
"Mara," he said, surprised.
"I was passing through," she replied.
A lie. They both knew it.
"I didn't think you liked markets," he said.
"I don't."
"But you came."
She folded her arms. "Don't read into it."
"I wouldn't dare."
They walked together without deciding to. Side by side. Not touching.
"This town does that," he said after a moment. "Makes people drift instead of choose."
"I prefer choosing."
"And yet," he said gently, "you're here."
She stopped walking.
Julien stopped too, turning to face her fully.
"You don't owe me anything," he said. "I don't expect you to like this. Or me. Or February."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
"That's the problem," she said quietly. "You don't expect. And that makes it harder to leave."
The honesty startled them both.
A bell rang from the church nearby, echoing across the square.
Julien didn't reach for her. Didn't step closer.
"I'll walk you back," he said instead.
They returned to the apartment in silence, the kind that didn't need filling.
That night, the storm returned with a vengeance.
Wind battered the windows, rattling the frames. Snow piled high against the door, the world outside shrinking to white and shadow.
The power flickered once.
Then went out.
Darkness swallowed the apartment.
Mara froze.
A flash of memory surged hospital corridors, dimmed lights, the sound of machines failing into silence.
Her breath hitched.
"Hey," Julien said immediately, his voice calm, grounded. "It's okay. It happens here."
She didn't answer.
He found a flashlight and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the dark.
"Mara," he said softly. "Talk to me."
"I don't like the dark," she admitted, the words scraping out of her throat.
He nodded, as if she'd said something ordinary. "Come sit."
She hesitated.
Then crossed the room.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch, light between them. Wind howled outside, relentless.
"I won't touch you," Julien said quietly. "Unless you ask."
Her chest tightened.
Minutes passed. Then another.
Without looking at him, Mara said, "Stay."
He didn't move closer.
But he didn't leave.
In the darkness, with February pressing in on all sides, that felt like the bravest thing either of them had done.
And for the first time, Mara didn't feel like she was surviving the month.
She felt like she was choosing to stay inside it.