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The snow had started falling two hours ago — soft at first, then hard and fast, until the forest road looked more like a blank page than a path. The GPS lost signal ten minutes in. The car skidded on a bend right before the turnoff. Your dog — wide-eyed and pacing in the backseat — had been whining since the second mile marker.
And still… the cabin had looked beautiful when you pulled up.
It sat nestled between tall pines, dark wooden beams and warm window light glowing through the falling white. Quiet. Secluded. Exactly what you needed.
You popped the trunk, yanked your suitcase out with one hand, the dog’s leash with the other, and trudged up the short path to the front steps, boots crunching through fresh powder.
Then you stopped. There was already a truck in the driveway.
An older model. Big. Black. Dusty with road salt and sitting like it had been there for a while.
Your brows pulled tight. The dog barked once beside you, then tilted her head, alert. You stared at the truck. Then the front door. Then the little wood-carved sign on the gate that read “Birch Hollow – Cabin 4.”
Right address. You took a breath, leash in one hand, suitcase handle in the other, and climbed the steps.
The door opened before you knocked. A man stood in the doorway.
Tall. Dark hair. A salt-and-pepper beard that should’ve looked scruffy but somehow looked… deliberate. Broad shoulders under a black henley, sleeves rolled up like he’d been halfway through unpacking or chopping firewood or—whatever it was men like him did in snowbound forest retreats.
He looked you over. From the luggage to the dog at your side. Then up to your face. And he looked confused and a little annoyed.
“Uh,” he said. “You must have the wrong cabin”
You stared at him. “No, it’s definitely this one.”
“Well cabin’s booked, as you can see” he said flatly, gesturing behind him.
You dug your phone out of your pocket, screen already open to the confirmation email.
“Yeah,” you snapped. “By me.”
He pulled a phone out of his back pocket too, flipping through it with a rough swipe of his thumb, then turning the screen toward you. Same date. Same name. Same cabin.
Your stomach dropped.
“No way,” you muttered. “They double-booked us?”
He let out a low exhale. “Looks like it. You wanna come in, instead of standing out there.” You followed — mostly because standing outside wasn’t doing anyone favors.
“Yeah, I will come in…to the cabin I booked thanks.”
The warmth hit instantly. The smell of firewood and something vaguely spicy on the stove. Your dog shook off a few flakes and immediately padded toward the hearth, sniffing everything on her way. Then—another bark, From the corner.
A huge German shepherd mix came trotting out, tail up, ears alert. And apparently… ready to make friends. Your pup didn’t hesitate. They sniffed. Circled. And within seconds, both were tail-wagging like old pals.
“Well,” the man muttered. “Guess they’re not pissed.”
You stared at the dogs, then back at him. “This is ridiculous. I called ahead. Booked months ago.”
“So did I,” he said. “But hey—let’s both pretend it’s your holiday that matters more.”
You scowled. “Wow. Sarcastic and smug. What a treat.”
He gave a tight, unimpressed grin. “Name’s Negan. In case you need something to yell while you’re storming around trying to call customer service.”
“I don’t need your name. I need your keys. So you can leave.”
He barked out a short laugh. “Ain’t happening, sweetheart. Not in this storm. Roads are already iced over. Signal’s garbage. And unless you brought a snowplow with that carry-on, neither of us is going anywhere tonight.”
You tried calling, of course you did. No signal. Not even a bar.
Holding your phone up like that would magically change something. After a few tries, he held up a battered walkie-talkie.
“You can try this, dunno if it’ll work but give it a go” he says pushing it towards me over the kitchen island.
You paced the living room with the walkie-talkie gripped in your hand, thumb hovering over the button. It crackled with static every time you pressed it, like the universe itself was reluctant to help. Finally — after a few agonizing moments of white noise and distorted squelches — a voice broke through the fuzz.
“Birch Hollow Guest Services, this is Janet speaking, over.”
You pressed the button. “Hi, yeah, my name is Y/N and I’m in Cabin 4. I think there’s been some kind of mistake — someone else is here. The cabin’s already occupied.”
A pause. Faint clicking in the background. “Cabin four… okay, let me check… over.”
You glanced over your shoulder. Negan was lounging in the corner like he owned the place, his dog curled up at his feet, firelight flickering across his annoyingly relaxed face.
“Right,” Janet’s voice returned, staticky. “I see your reservation. Booked three months ago. All confirmed. Over.”
“Yes, thank you, but there’s another person here,” you said, slowly. “He claims he has the exact same reservation. And—spoiler alert—he’s not moving.”
“Let me look into that...” More clicking. “Ah. Huh.”
“Huh?” you said, flattening your tone. “Why does everyone say ‘huh’ before delivering bad news?”
From the couch, Negan called out, “Ask if that’s a technical term.”
You shot him a glare.
Janet came back on. “Looks like both bookings were entered close together. There was a system flag on his for pending confirmation, but someone must have cleared it later. I'm really sorry, this… doesn’t happen often. Over.”
“Okay,” you said, rubbing your temple. “So what happens now? Do you have any other cabins available?”
Another beat. Then: “Unfortunately, no. We’re at full capacity. And with this incoming weather system—” a crackle of static “—roads are expected to be unsafe by nightfall. Closures are likely. Best option is to stay put until the warning lifts. Over.”
Your stomach sank. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck?”
“Yes, for now. You’re not in danger, but travel isn’t recommended. I understand this is inconvenient. If anything opens up, we’ll reach out. For now… make the best of it? Over.”
You held the walkie-talkie a few inches away and stared at it in disbelief.
“Make the best of it?” you repeated flatly.
You clicked it off without replying. From across the room, Negan’s voice drifted in, as smug as ever. “So… what’d Janet have to say?”
You turned, sighing harder than was probably necessary. “She said to make the best of it.”
He chuckled, leaning back against the couch, stretching long legs out toward the fire. “Hell, I’ve been sayin’ that since you walked in.”
You dropped the walkie-talkie onto the table with a thud and rubbed your face.
“I hate this.”
“I can tell,” he said, voice still irritatingly amused. “But look on the bright side: you got yourself a warm fire, a bed, and a free show of me walking around in flannel for the next three days.”
You groaned. This was going to be a long, long weekend.
You stared at him, heart thudding with cold frustration and something else. Something a little harder to name.
“And you expect me to just stay here with you?”
Negan shrugged. “Got no expectations. But the couch is long enough. I’ll take it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not sleeping in the same house as a total stranger.”
“Well, technically,” he said, settling on the arm of the sofa, “I’m only half a stranger. You know my name now.”
“Congratulations.”
He smirked. You dragged your suitcase toward the small bedroom anyway. You’d decide what to do after you warmed up. After you figured out a plan.
Except... there was no plan. Not tonight. And maybe not tomorrow, if the snow kept falling the way it was now.
————-
You tried to spend the first hour avoiding him.
You unpacked what little you'd brought — just enough clothes, your sketchbook, your emergency snacks — and stacked them neatly in the bedroom. Lit one of the pine-scented candles you'd tucked in your bag. Sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to think about how this was supposed to be your solo reset.
It was hard to enjoy peace and quiet when someone else kept clearing his throat in the next room like an obnoxious punctuation mark.
Eventually, you wandered back into the main room. The dogs had become fast friends — yours curled in a patch of rug near the fire, his flat on her side with a lazy paw draped across yours like they’d known each other forever.
Negan was sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, a steaming mug in his hands. You hadn’t realized you’d been staring until he looked up at you over the rim of it.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice dry. “Didn’t poison it.”
You frowned. “What?”
He lifted the second mug from the floor and set it on the coffee table in front of you. “Hot chocolate. Made enough for two.”
You eyed it suspiciously, then walked over, picked it up, and sat — a healthy few feet away.
Silence fell again. Softer this time. Less tense. The fire popped.
Your hands curled around the warmth of the mug, and you sighed.
Negan glanced over. “So… you always run off to the woods for Christmas, or is this a one-time meltdown?”
You arched a brow. “Wow. You don’t warm up slowly, do you?”
He grinned. “It’s a gift.”
You sipped your drink, letting it fill your chest with something comforting. “It’s just been a long year.”
“That so?”
You nodded. “Work’s a mess. Family’s exhausting. Friends are scattered. And to top it off a horrible breakup. It felt easier to hit the reset button somewhere quiet.”
His brow furrowed slightly — not in judgment, but like he understood. “So, basically, the holidays were gonna suck either way.”
“Pretty much,” you said, half-laughing into your cup.
He leaned his head back against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Yeah. Been there.”
You looked at him sideways. “And what’s your excuse?”
He was quiet for a second longer than expected. Then, with a small exhale: “Wife passed away a couple years ago. Used to come up here together. Figured I’d still come. Didn’t expect company.”
Your chest tightened a little. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Life happens. Sometimes it rips the rug out and throws the rug in the fireplace and then laughs while you trip over what’s left.”
You gave a soft laugh, despite yourself.
"That’s a very specific metaphor.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m a very specific guy.”
You settled back a little more, the fire making your toes feel pleasantly numb. The chocolate was sweet and creamy, perfect for warming you up.
Negan tilted his head. “So what do you do when you’re not threatening guest services and losing arguments to walkie-talkies?”
You sighed dramatically. “I’m a graphic designer.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Too many clients. Too many deadlines. Not enough caffeine.”
“All of the above.”
“Do you like it?”
You hesitated. “Some days. Others I wonder if I should run off and start a goat farm.”
He laughed — and you decided you liked the sound of it.
"What about you?” you asked, setting your empty mug down.
He leaned back a little. “Used to be a gym teacher. Now I run my own repair business. Car stuff, mostly. Few odd jobs.”
You tried not to picture him in gym shorts with a whistle, and failed.
He caught the look. “Yeah, yeah — I know. Everyone always thinks it was just dodgeball and yelling. But I liked it. Had a routine. Good kids. Clean floors.”
You smiled. “Clean floors?”
He nodded sagely. “You never truly understand peace until you walk barefoot across a freshly waxed gym floor and don’t stick to it.”
You snorted.
The moment lingered.
Outside, the snow kept falling, fat flakes spinning in lazy spirals past the windows. The dogs were both asleep now, piled together like some kind of makeshift floofball. The cabin was warm, golden, filled with a kind of calm you hadn’t felt in months.
Negan stretched, arms up, shirt riding just enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo peeking out above his waistband. You definitely looked. And you definitely hoped he didn’t notice.
“See something you like?” His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was a spark behind it.
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded down, a half-smirk playing on his mouth. “You were staring at my stomach like it owed you money.”
You scoffed, heat creeping up your neck. “Please. I was looking at the tattoo.”
“Sure you were.”
“I was!”
He stretched again, even slower this time — on purpose, the bastard — and let his shirt ride up just a little higher. The edge of black ink curved around his side, sharp lines disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You squinted. “What is that? A snake? A scorpion? Let me guess. Tribal from your rebellious phase?”
He snorted. “Wow. You really think I’m that cliché?”
“Well. You do have ‘grumpy man alone in the woods with tragic backstory’ written all over you.”
“Guilty,” he said, raising his mug like a toast. “But no. Not tribal. Not even from my rebellious phase. That was a pierced ear and a bad goatee, thank you very much.”
You made a face. “Please tell me there are pictures.”
“Burned every one.”
“Wow, I didn’t have you down as a coward.”
He chuckled, then tilted his head toward you. “What about you? Any hidden ink I should be scandalized by?”
You grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“That’s a yes.”
You shrugged, noncommittal. “Maybe.”
The silence settled again, not heavy this time, but comfortable — like the cabin had finally decided to let you both breathe. The fire cracked softly. One of the dogs let out a slow, contented sigh. Neither of you spoke for a while, and for once, it didn’t feel like something was missing. After a little bit of time you finished up your hot chocolate and took your mug to the sink to rinse.
“So,” he said, breaking the quiet again, “how competitive are you?”
You blinked. “What?”
He stood and walked to a small cabinet near the kitchen. “Because if we’re stuck in this cabin together for the foreseeable future, we might as well pass the time.”
He pulled out a battered box and turned, grinning.
“Scrabble,” he said. “Winner gets bragging rights and first pick on the next batch of hot chocolate.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you good at Scrabble?”
“I’m obnoxiously good at Scrabble.”
“Fine. But if you start using words like ‘qat’ or ‘zoonotic,’ I’m quitting.”
“No promises" he smirked
———-
You weren’t sure when you started smiling.
Maybe it was the hot chocolate. Maybe it was the fire. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t had a real conversation with someone — let alone one who was sarcastic, infuriating, and somehow still weirdly comforting — in longer than you cared to admit.
Negan set the Scrabble board on the coffee table with a low whistle, brushing the dust from the lid.
“This thing’s seen better days,” he muttered, flipping it open. “Like me.”
You snorted as you sat cross-legged on the floor across from him. “Was that supposed to be self-deprecating or flirty?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, pulling letter tiles from the bag with one hand and shuffling them between his fingers, “if I flirt, you’ll know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He grinned — slow and shameless — and started setting up the board.
The first round was mild. You played cold. He added lid using your L. You slid in dents from his D, and he came back with shaky from the S, earning him a raised brow and a smug shrug.
After a few turns he said “Your turn, champ.”
“I’m thinking,” you muttered, staring at your letters. “I don’t have anything.”
Negan tilted his head. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. All I’ve got is vowels and a single Q. What do you even do with a Q?”
He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes flicking from your letters to your face. “If you’ve got a U, you play quaint. If you don’t, you bluff confidence and pray.”
“Ah, yes,” you deadpanned. “Classic strategy.”
You laid down a mediocre word. He added another that made you narrow your eyes.
“Plinth?” you asked. “That’s not a real word.”
He gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you. It’s extremely real. It’s like… a fancy base. For a statue. Or a trophy. Or someone like me.”
You threw a tile at him. He dodged, laughing.
“I thought you said you were a mechanic,” you said, squinting at him suspiciously. “You talk like an English professor.”
“Hey now,” he said, raising both hands. “A man can know words and fix a busted carburetor. I contain multitudes.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile was tugging at your lips again.
A few turns later, he got up and wandered over to a low cabinet behind the kitchen island. You watched as he pulled out a dusty, half-full bottle of something amber.
“What’s that?”
He held it up. “Cabin special. Bourbon, I think. Or maybe whiskey. Label’s mostly peeled off. Could be paint thinner for all I know.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And you’re drinking it anyway?”
“Adds character.”
He poured a generous splash into his hot chocolate, stirred it with a spoon, and took a sip like it was no big deal. Then, glancing at your mug, he raised the bottle. “Want in?”
You hesitated.
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “You’re already sitting cross-legged on a bearskin rug by the fire. Might as well lean into the rustic fantasy.”
You snorted but held out your mug. “Just a little.”
He poured.
You took a cautious sip. The sharpness hit first, followed by the familiar sweetness of chocolate and marshmallow. It burned a little, but in a satisfying, toe-curling way.
A little while later, you were on your second cup. Maybe third. You weren’t really keeping track. Your limbs had gone pleasantly loose, and when Negan smugly laid down the word vexing on a double word score, you let out an overly loud laugh.
“That’s not fair,” you slurred gently, pointing a finger at the board. “You have a thesaurus in your head.”
“I have a lot in my head,” he said with mock solemnity. “Most of it completely useless.”
“Still counts,” you muttered, swaying slightly as you sipped again. “Ugh. I’m warm.”
“Bourbon’ll do that,” he said, sipping his own like it was tea. You narrowed your eyes at how unfazed he looked.
“You’re not even tipsy.”
He smirked. “Sweetheart, I’m twice your size and I used to drink with guys who made moonshine in car radiators. You’re lucky I’m not still sober after the whole bottle.”
You blinked.
“That’s not a brag,” he added. “It’s probably a medical concern.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
By the third cup of hot chocolate — now generously spiked and loaded with marshmallows after you won a challenge round for melancholy (12 points, thank you very much) — your limbs were humming, and things had eased even further.
You found yourself sitting closer to the fire, your knees bumping his as you reached to place another word. Your dog had migrated to your lap. His had curled up at your hip. The wind had picked up outside, gusting sharp flurries against the window, but the cabin felt sealed off. Safe. Warm.
You watched Negan watch you — in little flashes. When you laughed. When you muttered about terrible letters. When you stuck your tongue out in concentration and rearranged the same three tiles over and over again.
And maybe you watched him, too.
He was clever. Surprisingly gentle when his hand brushed yours picking up pieces. And as quick as his sarcasm was, there was something quieter under it. Something you hadn’t expected.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” you said out loud, before really meaning to.
He raised a brow. “Yeah?”
You shrugged, looking at the board. “Most guys with your… whole vibe? Usually talk a lot of shit.”
He gave you a crooked grin. “You calling me a cliché?”
“Just a little.”
He leaned forward again, voice dropping a notch — still playful, but something warmer beneath it now.
“Lemme guess. You thought I’d spend this whole snow-in trying to charm the pants off you.”
Yu held his gaze. “Was I wrong?”
His smile widened. “Would it be a bad thing?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
That was… a surprisingly hard question to answer.
You cleared your throat and picked up a new tile. “Let’s just play the game.”
“For now,” he murmured.
And yet — he didn’t push it. Didn’t sit any closer, didn’t flirt louder, didn’t needle you past your comfort.
He just kept playing.
And by the time the board was full and both of you were tipsy on warmth and laughter and one too many spoonfuls of marshmallow goo, you felt something strange blooming in your chest.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, but neither of you moved to throw another log on.
You sat side by side on the floor now, backs against the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket thrown across your lap — more out of habit than need. Your dog was curled beside you. His had migrated to the hearth, snoring like it was her job.
Warmth pooled behind your ribs, slow and syrupy. The hot chocolate — spiked with just enough bourbon to make your cheeks warm and your words a little softer — sat half-finished on the table behind you. You weren’t drunk, but you were definitely floating. Light. Unmoored. And just relaxed enough to let your guard slip.
For a long moment, there was no sound but the low crackle of wood and the faint whistle of wind outside.
“Alright,” Negan said, voice low, warm with exhaustion and cocoa. “Let’s play a new game.”
You turned your head toward him, a little slow, a little fuzzy. “If this is another chance for you to humiliate me with weird Scrabble words—”
“Nope,” he smirked. “Even simpler. Just take turns asking questions.”
You blinked at him, skeptical. “Like… twenty questions?”
“Nah,” he said. “No limit. Just… talk. Go.”
You sipped the last of your drink, then tilted your head. “Okay. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Lucille.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… a pretty name.”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the dog by the fire. “My wife’s name. She picked the dog. Said I’d need someone to look out for me after she was gone.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess she figured a one-hundred-pound shepherd with abandonment issues was the way to go.”
You offered a small, lopsided smile. “Seems like it worked.”
He looked down at Lucille, his expression softening. “Yeah. She’s good company.”
You nodded. “Your turn.”
Negan looked at you — not just glanced, but really looked. His gaze was steady, a little curious, a little careful.
“What’s your happiest memory?” he asked.
The question took you by surprise. You hesitated, then let out a breath.
“Um… probably a camping trip with my dad when I was a kid. It rained the whole time, our tent collapsed, and we ended up sleeping in the car — soaked and freezing — but we couldn’t stop laughing.” You smiled faintly. “I didn’t even realize how much I loved it until years later.”
He nodded slowly. “That sounds like a good one.”
You looked over at him. “What’s yours?”
Negan was quiet for a beat.
“First day Lucille walked again after her treatment,” he said eventually. “She’d been stuck in bed for months. Doctors weren’t hopeful. Then one morning she just stood up, walked out into the backyard, and asked me to bring her coffee.” He gave a soft laugh. “Like nothing happened. I damn near dropped the mug.”
You didn’t say anything — just reached over and touched his arm gently.
He didn’t thank you. He just kept going.
“Alright,” he said. “Favorite food?”
You smiled. “Spaghetti. But not fancy. Like, the cheap boxed kind with meatballs that come in a bag. Pure nostalgia.”
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Grilled cheese. With garlic butter. And exactly three slices of cheese, or it’s a crime.”
You laughed — and maybe it was the alcohol, or the comfort of the fire, or just him, but your laugh came easier now.
“You have a grilled cheese code?”
“Damn right I do. I’m a man of principle.”
Another silence.
Not awkward. Not stiff.
Just… easy.
“What’s your biggest fear?” you asked, a little quieter now.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Wasting time.”
You nodded, the warmth in your chest turning bittersweet. “Yeah. That one hits.”
He looked over. “Yours?”
You hesitated, your words a little slower now, softened by the bourbon and the comfort.
“Being too much. Or not enough. Depending on the day.”
He stared at you for a long moment.
“You ever hear yourself talk?” he said. “'Cause it’s a shame if you think either of those things.”
Heat crept into your cheeks — subtle, but unmistakable. You looked away, suddenly self-conscious in a way that felt teenagerish.
“Alright, your turn,” you murmured, tucking your knees up a little more under the blanket.
Negan leaned back against the couch, head tilted.
“Ever been in love?” he asked.
You paused, your buzzed haze momentarily sobered by the question.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Once.”
“What happened?”
You exhaled slowly, picking at the edge of the blanket.
“We were together for a few years. Engaged, actually. Lived together, had a dog, the whole thing.” A bitter smile twitched at your mouth. “Then I found out he was cheating on me. With my best friend. They’d been lying to me for months. Maybe longer.”
Negan didn’t say anything. Just watched you — not with pity, but with a kind of calm understanding that somehow made the shame feel a little smaller.
“I left that night,” you added. “Took the dog, didn’t look back.”
“Good,” he said.
“And obviously you’ve been in love?”
His jaw shifted slightly, like the question settled deeper than he wanted it to.
“Yeah, I’ve been in love,” he said. “But I think I only figured out how deep it went when I lost it.”
You looked at him. “Did it mess you up? Cause I know mine did”
“Yup,” he answered without hesitation.
You both laughed — low and tired and just this side of tipsy.
You shifted, pulling the blanket higher. “Okay. Lighter topic. Favorite movie.”
“Easy,” he said. “Jaws.”
“Of course it is.”
He smirked. “C’mon. It’s a classic. Suspense. Great music. Perfect villain.”
“You mean the shark?”
He grinned wider. “No, sweetheart. I mean the mayor.”
That got a laugh out of you — a real one. Loud and surprised and from the gut.
Your dog stirred, blinked sleepily at you, then sighed and flopped back down.
Another silence.
“Hey,” Negan said. “You glad you didn’t storm out earlier?”
You glanced sideways at him. “Kinda.”
“Me too.”
——
You’d lost track of time.
One minute you were finishing off the last drops of hot chocolate (laced with a generous splash of bourbon), and the next you were wiping away tears of laughter after Negan told some ridiculous story about trying to fix a garbage disposal and accidentally flooding an entire kitchen.
Neither of you had planned on talking for hours. But the fire crackled, the room was warm, and the company — surprisingly — didn’t suck.
It was well past midnight when the yawns started sneaking in between the conversation.
You stood and stretched, catching the way Negan’s eyes flicked toward the exposed sliver of your stomach before he quickly looked away. You pretended not to notice and padded to the bedroom to grab a couple of pillows and a thick blanket.
“Here,” you said, holding them out to him as he rose from the floor. “For the couch.”
He took them with a nod, brushing your fingers in the exchange. “Appreciate it.”
You hesitated, then added softly, “Thanks… for not being a total asshole about this whole cabin thing.”
His smirk was lazy. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
The goodbye lingered longer than it should’ve.
“Night,” you said.
“Night,” he echoed, eyes still on yours. Then, as you turned to go: “See you in the morning.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
His expression was softer than expected. Tired. A little fond.
You gave him the faintest smile before slipping into the bedroom.
And neither of you saw how long the other stood there after the door closed.
—————————-
The next morning, you woke to the scent of bacon.
For a second, you thought you were dreaming.
Then you heard pans clattering in the kitchen and the low murmur of a radio playing through static. You rolled out of bed and pulled a sweater over your tank top, brushing fingers through your hair as you glanced in the mirror.
Not terrible.
You rubbed under your eyes, applied a little lip balm, and pinched your cheeks for some natural color. Not because you cared, of course. It was just…..Well, you were snowed in. No harm in trying to look a little less like a cave goblin.
You stepped out into the warm, golden glow of the main room, where the fire had been reignited and the smell of breakfast was downright unfair.
Negan stood at the stove, spatula in one hand, mug in the other. His hair was a little messy, his t-shirt rumpled, and his flannel pajama pants rode low on his hips.
He looked over his shoulder and grinned.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t sleeping that late.”
“I’ve been up for two hours. Did a whole load of imaginary laundry and everything.”
You walked to the counter, eyes scanning the food. “Is that… bacon?”
He flipped a strip dramatically. “And eggs. And toast. And I cut up a banana so it looks like I care about nutrition.”
You smirked. “Wow. One more step and this is breakfast in bed.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Give me another night on that couch and who knows what I’ll do.”
Your face flushed a little, but you covered it by grabbing a plate.
The dogs were sprawled near the fire again, tails thumping as you passed.
Over breakfast, you talked more — mostly light stuff. Movies you couldn’t believe the other hadn’t seen. Your shared hatred for soggy toast. How both of your dogs had been adopted on impulse and ended up saving your lives in different ways.
The mood was lighter. Playful. Comfortable.
After the plates were cleared, Negan glanced out the window.
“Snow’s eased up a little,” he said. “Wanna go explore? Might help with the cabin fever.”
You hesitated. “You think it’s safe?”
He shrugged. “We’ll stick close. Plus, if you pass out from the cold, I’ll just toss you over my shoulder and drag you back.”
“Comforting,” you said dryly, but you pulled on your boots anyway.
———
The forest was quiet. Snow clung thick to the trees, muffling sound and making the world feel smaller, closer, more intimate. You walked side by side, bundled in coats and scarves, dogs trotting happily ahead of you, leaving a mess of paw prints behind.
At one point, you stopped to admire a small frozen creek. The sunlight caught in the ice, throwing prisms of light into the air.
Negan looked over. “Bet this is better than spending Christmas crying in your ex’s apartment.”
You laughed. “yeah… this is better.”
He nudged you with his elbow. “See? Told you I’m a decent accidental roommate.”
You smirked. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Just then, a snowball hit your shoulder.
You stared at him, disbelief written all over your face.
He didn’t even try to look innocent. He shrugged
“Oh, you’re dead.”
You scooped up a handful of snow and launched it at him. It hit him square in the chest.
He grunted. “Oh, it’s on now.”
The next few minutes were chaos. Snow flying in every direction. Dogs barking. You shrieking as he ducked behind a tree. Him charging at you with a scoop of snow in both hands, you slipping and shrieking with laughter.
Eventually, breathless and red-cheeked, you both slowed just before the cabin. The cold was seeping in, and your gloves were damp from the snow and they just weren’t cutting it anymore.
“Shit,” you muttered, removing your gloves and blowing into your palms. “I can’t feel my fingers.”
Negan looked over and frowned. “Come here.”
You hesitated, then stepped closer.
He took your hands gently in his — big, rough palms surrounding your frozen ones. Then he raised them to his mouth and exhaled warm breath over your knuckles.
Slow. Careful. Tender.
Your breath caught.
He did it again, eyes never leaving yours.
“You’re blushing,” he said, one brow lifting.
“Obviously….It’s cold,” you replied quickly, looking away.
“Mm-hm,” he murmured, clearly not buying it.
But he didn’t push.
Just held your gaze a moment longer. And when he lowered your hands again, your fingers stayed in his for a second too long.
He gave a little nod toward the cabin. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up properly.”
And as you followed him back up the snowy path, heart thudding with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire inside, you realized this holiday was turning out to be nothing like you’d planned — and somehow, exactly what you needed.
——
The bath was almost too perfect.
Hot water. Lavender-scented bubbles. Soft jazz trickling from the other room — low enough to blend into the gentle crackle of the fire. You’d tossed in a bath bomb on a whim and now the whole room smelled like bergamot and vanilla.
For the first time in a while, your muscles had started to unclench. Your shoulders dipped beneath the waterline. Your eyes fluttered closed. Somewhere out in the main room, you could hear the dogs settling in by the fire again — their soft sighs of contentment like white noise.
It was peaceful.
Until it wasn’t.
The lights snapped off with a hard click, plunging the bathroom into total darkness.
You blinked.
And waited.
Nothing.
The music had cut out too — the silence that followed felt too sudden, too complete. You reached blindly toward the edge of the tub for your phone before remembering — it was still on the nightstand, charging. No flashlight. No candles. No Negan yelling some sarcastic complaint about the universe.
Just darkness.
“Seriously?” you muttered.
You started to sit up, water sloshing quietly around you. The tub was still warm, but your skin prickled with cold anyway — some primitive instinct kicking in as you moved slower, trying to adjust to the black.
Your foot found the bottom of the tub. Then the other. You braced a hand on the tiled wall, reaching with the other for the towel you swore you’d draped close by.
Except your fingers caught nothing but air.
“Shit.”
You shifted, trying to get better footing — but the bath was slick, and your balance wobbled. One wrong move and—
Your heel slipped.
You gasped, arms flailing as your weight pitched forward. Instinctively, you grabbed the edge of the shower curtain — but it gave way with a harsh rip, the plastic rings popping off the rod one by one as the curtain came down in a useless tangle.
Your back hit the tile. Hard.
But not before your head caught the corner of something — the floor? the wall? — with a thunk that made your eyes water.
“God—damn it,” you groaned, curling slightly on the cold tiles, wet curtain bunched around you like seaweed.
You barely registered the footsteps before you heard Negan’s voice, muffled but sharp through the door.
“Y/N? You alright in there?”
You tried to speak, but all that came out was another soft groan.
There was a pause.
“Okay—fuck it, I’m coming in.”
The door cracked open and the sudden beam of light from his phone flashlight swept across the room. You squinted, blinking as it landed on your tangled mess of limbs, wet hair, and poorly positioned shower curtain.
Negan froze in the doorway.
“...Well, that’s a hell of a way to start a strip show.”
Your eyes narrowed, and you tugged the plastic curtain higher over your chest with a glare. “Do not make me throw shampoo at your face right now.”
“Relax, sweetheart. Just checking you didn’t crack your skull open,” he said, stepping inside. His voice dropped a little as he looked closer. “You alright? That sounded like a full-on WWE takedown.”
“I slipped,” you muttered. “And possibly concussed myself.”
“Here.” He tossed the towel over your body with surprising precision and crouched down beside you. “Hold that. Let me help you up.”
You wrapped the towel around yourself as best you could, flushing hot despite the cold tiles under you. He reached for your arm, strong fingers curling gently around your wrist as he helped guide you to your feet. The curtain peeled off you with a wet slap, falling in a pathetic heap.
He kept one arm around your waist as you straightened up, then glanced down at your face, squinting toward your temple.
“You hit your head?”
You nodded, wincing as his thumb brushed lightly just above your brow.
“Yeah, you’ve got a bit of an egg. But not bad. No bleeding. Just a classic ‘dumbass in the dark’ injury.”
You gave him a look. “Thanks, Dr. House.”
He smirked. “Anytime, sweetheart. C’mon, sit down before you pass out and I have to carry your naked ass around like a fainting Victorian heroine.”
You let him guide you toward the bed, still clutching the towel with every ounce of dignity you had left. The room was dim — only his phone light and the faint glow of snow through the window. He helped you sit down gently on the edge, then crouched in front of you again, his face now closer to yours than it had any right to be.
The heat that crawled up your neck had nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.
“I’ll get you some ice for that” He said, still watching you closely.
“Thanks” you smiled
“And find some candles, We’re officially in romantic blackout territory.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Romantic?”
He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping lower. “Well, I’ve already seen you naked. Feels like we skipped a few steps.”
Your heart thudded. You met his eyes, found the glint of humor there — but something else too. Something warmer. Darker.
You exhaled slowly. “Go get the damn candles, Negan.”
He stood, laughing under his breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he turned, the phone’s flashlight bounced around the room, catching flashes of your reflection in the dark window, the disheveled bathroom, the shower curtain lying like a body on the floor.
And for a moment, even with the headache blooming and your pride slightly bruised, you smiled. Because this man — ridiculous, exasperating, infuriating — had shown up for you.
You sat on the edge of the bed for a moment after he left, towel clutched to your chest, trying to will your heart to stop doing jumping jacks.
Get it together.
Your head still throbbed, but the embarrassment stung more. At least Negan had had the decency not to really look when you were half-naked and crumpled on the floor — though his smirk had suggested he'd noticed plenty.
You dried off quickly and rummaged through your bag for your usual sleep wear: an old, oversized band tee — soft and slouchy, the kind that hit mid-thigh and made you look like you were trying to be effortlessly sexy when in reality it was your I-have-nothing-else-to-wear option. You pulled it on with a fresh pair of underwear and debated pants for half a second.
Screw it. Blanket life.
When you stepped out into the main room, the fire had been restoked and flickering candlelight danced along the walls in small pools of amber glow. A cluster of tealights flickered on the coffee table. One of the dogs had stolen a sock and was batting it half-heartedly with a paw, while the other had already curled into the dog bed near the hearth.
Negan looked up from the couch, now holding a ziplock bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel. When he saw you, he paused.
His eyes dropped to the hem of your shirt — long enough to pass for decent, short enough to leave very little to the imagination.
“Well damn,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize this place came with room service.”
You shot him a flat look. “One comment and I swear to God I’ll put jeans on.”
He held up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of interfering. Just appreciating the fashion choices.”
You padded across the room, legs bare, hair still damp, and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch.
Top and tails.
Your feet ended up by his hip, his by yours, both of you stretched out like two misfit puzzle pieces under the fluffiest blanket you could find.
He passed you the makeshift ice pack, and you pressed it gently to your temple with a soft hiss.
“Still hurts?” he asked.
“A little. Mostly my pride.”
“You landed like a damn cartoon character,” he said with a grin. “Should’ve left a dent in the floor shaped like your body.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes, then let your head fall back against the cushion. The fire cracked softly. The candlelight danced. One of the dogs let out a sleepy snore.
It was quiet again. Peaceful. Then—
“I’m excellent at foot rubs, you know.”
You looked at him. “Oh really?”
“Swear to God. I almost made a career out of it.”
You arched a brow. “You almost became a professional foot masseur?”
“Negan’s Magical Hands,” he said seriously, raising both palms. “Could’ve franchised.”
You wiggled your toes at him under the blanket. “Show me what you got, Mr. Magical Hands.”
He grinned, reaching under the covers and grabbing your foot gently in his big, warm hand.
“I’ll do you,” he said, already kneading expertly into your arch, “if you do me.”
You laughed. “That sounds dangerously suggestive.”
“I am dangerously suggestive.”
You reached for his foot in retaliation, but your rhythm faltered almost instantly.
Because damn, the man wasn’t lying — his thumbs moved in slow, practiced circles, finding muscles you didn’t even know you had in your feet. You slumped deeper into the couch with a groan before you could stop it.
Negan chuckled low.
“Ohhh,” he said, voice amused and rough. “Now that sounded real erotic.”
You opened one eye to glare at him. “It’s called pain relief.”
He smirked. “Might wanna keep the moaning down unless you’re planning on giving me a different kind of massage.”
Your cheeks flamed. You kicked him lightly in the thigh.
But the tension had shifted — warmer, thicker. Even with the jokes, something about the way his fingers lingered on your ankle felt deliberate. Intimate.
You took a slow breath, trying to cool your brain.
“Hey,” you said after a beat, quieter now. “Would it be totally pathetic if I asked you to sleep in the bed tonight?”
His brow lifted.
You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “It’s just… it’s really dark. Like, cabin-in-the-woods horror-movie dark. And I know it’s stupid, but—”
“Hey,” he interrupted gently. “Not stupid.”
You looked at him. He hesitated, then said, “You want me to sleep in there, I will.”
You let out a breath of relief. “Thanks.”
“But…” he added, already smirking again, “I feel like there should be a pillow barrier. For safety. Like in middle school.”
You snorted. “Agreed. Three pillows minimum. Maybe a fourth in case of accidental snuggling.”
“Oh, sweetheart, You think pillows are gonna stop me?” He said smirking.
You blushed, laughing in spite of yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet…” he nudged your foot. “Here we are.”
——
The bed was warm and the storm had picked up again outside — soft gusts of wind shaking the branches, snow tapping against the windowpanes. A few candles flickered faintly on the dresser, casting long shadows.
You were curled beneath the covers, hair loose around your shoulders, band shirt hitched up slightly from shifting under the sheets. Negan lay beside you, shirtless now, one arm tucked behind his head.
Pillow barrier: technically in place. But not very well enforced.
Your voice broke the silence.
“I’m kinda glad the cabin was double-booked.”
You didn’t look at him when you said it, But you felt his eyes on you.
“Yeah?” he said softly.
You nodded. “It’s been… weird. But good. In a way I didn’t know I needed.”
There was a pause. Then you felt it — his hand under the blanket, tracing the curve of your hip. Up, slow, warm. Across your ribs. His fingers skimmed your sternum, brushing just lightly enough to leave your breath hitching.
He reached your cheek and paused there, cupping it gently.
You looked at him.
He was already watching you. Searching your face for any sign to stop. Any flinch. Any regret.
You didn’t say a word. So he leaned in.
And kissed you.
Soft. Deliberate. No jokes. No heat just for heat’s sake.
Just a kiss.
And something in you — all the months of being guarded, tired, bruised by the world — loosened.
You kissed him back.
The kiss deepened.
Still slow, still exploratory — like neither of you wanted to startle the moment, as if it might vanish if you breathed too hard.
His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours.
“Been wantin’ to do that,” he murmured, voice low, rough around the edges. “For a while now.”
Your lips parted with a soft inhale. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still closed. “You got under my skin in, like, 2 days. Not fair, honestly.”
You smiled faintly. “It’s the sarcasm. It’s seductive.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You got that right.”
For a beat, there was only the sound of the wind against the cabin and the low crackle of the dying fire in the next room.
Then his hand slid from your cheek, tracing down your neck and across your collarbone — fingertips feather-light, barely touching. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up: your skin prickled, chest rising subtly toward his touch.
You didn’t pull away.
You didn’t want to.
He watched you, eyes flicking to your lips, then your eyes again, like he was waiting for something — a signal, a word, a reason to stop.
You gave him none.
Instead, you tilted your head and kissed him again — firmer this time, your hand sliding up his chest to rest just over his heart.
That was all it took.
He groaned low against your mouth and rolled slightly toward you, his leg tangling with yours under the blanket. His hand found the hem of your shirt, fingers skimming the bare skin of your thigh before pausing.
“Can I?” he asked softly, breath warm against your lips.
You nodded.
The shirt inched up slowly, exposing more of you to the cool air and his hot gaze. But it wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t greedy. He touched you like he’d earned the right — like he was memorizing, not just undressing.
And god, when his mouth moved to your neck — warm lips, gentle scrape of stubble — you sighed, your fingers threading into his hair without thinking.
It was the kind of intimacy you hadn’t had in a long time. Not just the physical kind, but the real kind — the kind where every inch of skin he touched felt seen. Like you weren’t just being wanted… you were being held.
His hand slid up your side, your ribcage, until it rested just beneath your breast — waiting again. Always waiting.
When you leaned into his touch, he cupped you gently, thumb brushing over the soft curve. You gasped against his mouth and he smiled into the kiss.
"You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”
“Right back at you,” you whispered.
The blanket shifted. Clothes eased away. The room stayed quiet — just the sound of breath and heartbeat and soft, barely-there moans exchanged like secrets.
When you finally came together, it was unhurried. No games. No pretending it wasn’t what you both needed — desperately, quietly, fully.
He held your hips, his forehead against yours, every movement deep and purposeful. He whispered your name like it was sacred. Like it tasted good in his mouth.
You pulled him closer, nails digging into his back as you gasped and arched and broke apart — then melted right back into each other again.
Afterward, neither of you moved for a long time.
His hand stayed curled around your side, thumb idly stroking the dip of your waist. You lay tucked into the crook of his arm, legs still tangled, cheek resting on his shoulder.
You felt... full. Not just in body. But in heart. In breath.
In a way that was unfamiliar — and terrifyingly good.
He kissed your temple, soft and slow. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. You?”
He gave a low hum. “More than.”
You lay like that in silence for a little while longer, letting the warmth of the fire and the afterglow settle deep in your bones.
“I don’t usually do that.”
His arm tightened slightly around you. “I know.”
You looked up at him. “How?”
“Because I don’t either.”
Your throat tightened, but you smiled.
“Guess the cabin’s not so cursed after all.”
He grinned, brushing your hair off your cheek. “Nah. Best damn mix-up I’ve ever had.”
You kissed him again — slower this time, more sure.
And when you both finally drifted off, tangled together in a stranger’s bed in a borrowed cabin with the storm still howling outside — you weren’t scared of the dark anymore.
Because somehow, in the middle of a blackout, you’d found something real.
————————
Morning came slowly.
No alarms. No dogs barking. Just the pale blue light of dawn leaking through frost-lined windows, and the steady thump of a heartbeat beneath your cheek.
Negan’s arm was slung over your waist, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. One of your legs was draped over his, and at some point in the night, the pillow barrier had become just another lump in the bed.
You should’ve felt awkward. Instead, you felt... content.
The storm was still out there somewhere — you could hear the faint hiss of wind, the occasional creak of snow shifting on the roof — but it was quieter now. Lighter.
You stretched a little, nestling deeper into his side.
“Mornin’,” came his gravel-coated voice.
You smiled against his skin. “Mornin’.”
Neither of you moved to get up. There was no need. For the first time in days, there was no tension in the air. No awkwardness. Just warmth, shared and steady.
He brushed his fingers down your arm, trailing goosebumps in his wake. “You sleep okay?”
“With a human furnace wrapped around me? Surprisingly well.”
He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Damn right.”
You were just about to close your eyes again when the crackle of the walkie-talkie on the nightstand broke the peace.
You both jumped.
Negan cursed under his breath and reached over you to grab it. “Guess the world remembered we exist.”
He passed it to you, still blinking sleep from his eyes.
You pressed the button. “Uh… hello?”
A familiar voice crackled back — the same chipper, vaguely apologetic customer service rep from the cabin rental company.
“Hi there! Sorry to bother you so early, but we just wanted to give you an update. Looks like the storm’s finally breaking — roads should start clearing later today.”
You sat up slightly, glancing at Negan.
She continued, oblivious: “Also, good news! We’ve finally had a cancellation, so we have a second cabin available. Again extremely sorry about this mix up but hopefully we can get it sorted for y’all!”
Negan raised an eyebrow at you.
You looked down at him, then pressed the button again, trying not to smile.
“Appreciate the offer,” you said, voice warm. “But we’re good where we are.”
There was a brief pause.
“Ah! Well… alright then,” the woman said brightly. “Let us know if you need anything and Enjoy the rest of your stay!”
The walkie cut out with a pop. Silence settled in again.
You set it back on the nightstand and flopped onto your back, letting out a soft laugh. “Well. That was your escape route.”
Negan turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he looked down at you. “Changed your mind? You wanna take it?”
You turned your head to face him, lips twitching.
“Not even a little.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Good.”
He leaned down, kissed you again — unhurried, with the kind of certainty that didn’t need words.
When he pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment.
“So…” he said, voice low, teasing, “You think they deliver breakfast to the cabins?”
You laughed. “You wanna be spoiled with breakfast in bed today instead?.”
“Damn right I do.”
You smiled, letting your fingers trail down his arm, his chest, then curling into the space between you both like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Outside, the wind eased its howl. And inside, the storm had already passed