Mara woke to warmth.
Not the artificial warmth of a heater or thick blankets but something steadier, closer. A presence that hadn't been there yesterday.
For one panicked second, her body reacted before her mind did. She inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.
The living room ceiling stared back at her.
Memory returned in fragments: the blackout, the storm, the couch, the space between them. She had fallen asleep sitting upright, wrapped in a blanket she didn't remember pulling over herself.
Julien sat in the armchair across from her, head tilted back, eyes closed. The flashlight lay dead on the floor between them. Morning light crept through the curtains, pale and cold.
He hadn't moved.
The realization struck her harder than any touch could have.
Mara sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Her muscles ached, her neck stiff, but beneath the discomfort was something worse an unfamiliar softness. A loosening she hadn't given permission for.
She stood quietly, careful not to wake him, and retreated to her room.
She locked the door.
Only then did she press her forehead against the wood and breathe.
This was not what she did.
This was not who she was.
She was careful. Controlled. Alone by choice.
And yet he had stayed all night without crossing a line.
That felt far more dangerous than desire.
When she emerged an hour later, showered and composed, Julien was awake and already cleaning the kitchen. The power had returned; the kettle hissed softly on the stove.
"Morning," he said, neutral, as if the night before hadn't happened.
"Morning," she replied, matching his tone.
They moved around each other carefully, choreographed strangers again. He poured coffee. She reached for a mug. Their fingers brushed accidentally.
The contact was brief.
Electric.
Mara's breath caught before she could stop it.
Julien froze too, his hand hovering midair. For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, the awareness roaring louder than the storm had.
Then he stepped back.
"Sorry," he said immediately.
She nodded once. "It's fine."
It wasn't.
The rest of the morning passed in quiet tension. Not uncomfortable but charged. Every movement felt deliberate now. Every glance carried weight.
Mara worked at the table, but the words on her screen refused to settle. Her thoughts drifted to the way Julien had stayed awake so she wouldn't be alone in the dark. To the way he'd respected her boundaries without needing them explained twice.
It made her restless.
By early afternoon, she shut her laptop and stood abruptly.
"I need to get out," she said.
Julien looked up. "Me too."
They left together without discussing it.
The town felt different today brighter, louder. Valentine banners multiplied overnight. Children dragged heart-shaped balloons behind them. A group of tourists laughed near the bakery, arms linked, careless with joy.
Mara felt the familiar irritation rise.
Julien noticed.
"You don't hate love," he said thoughtfully. "You hate the performance of it."
She glanced at him, surprised. "You're assuming."
"I'm observing."
She considered denying it. Didn't.
"They turn it into noise," she said instead. "Something loud and public. Like grief doesn't exist alongside it."
Julien nodded slowly. "Grief and love live in the same house," he said. "People just pretend they don't share walls."
The words settled deep.
They walked until the streets thinned and the buildings gave way to a quiet overlook above the town. Snow blanketed the ground, untouched and clean.
Mara stopped near the railing, staring out at the mountains.
"This is where you bring people?" she asked lightly.
"No," he said. "I come here when I need to remember where I am."
She understood that more than she expected.
The wind picked up, sharp and cold. She hugged her coat tighter around herself.
Julien noticed and, without a word, stepped slightly closer still not touching, just close enough to block the worst of the wind.
Her body reacted instantly.
Heat curled low in her stomach, unwelcome and undeniable. She hated how aware she was of him now of his breath, his warmth, the solidness of him at her side.
"This is a bad idea," she said quietly.
"Being here?"
"Letting myself feel this."
He didn't pretend not to know what she meant.
"Feeling doesn't obligate you to act," he said. "It just means you're human."
She let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's exactly what I'm trying to avoid."
He turned to face her, not stepping closer, but not retreating either.
"Mara," he said, voice low, steady. "I don't want something from you. I just don't want you to disappear behind your walls if you don't have to."
Her chest tightened.
No one had ever framed it that way before.
She looked at him then really looked. The quiet lines of grief etched into his face. The restraint. The patience.
If she leaned forward even slightly.
She stepped back instead.
"We should go," she said.
Julien nodded immediately. "Okay."
No protest. No disappointment.
The walk back was silent again, but heavier now. Awareness hung between them like a third presence.
That night, Mara lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her body still remembered the way he'd stood beside her. The warmth. The restraint. The possibility.
February had never tempted her like this before.
And temptation, she knew, was always the prelude to loss.
Yet as sleep finally claimed her, one thought refused to fade:
If this was what restraint felt like, she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep choosing it.