Chapter Text
Bojan arrived in Lapland tired in a very specific way—the kind that settled behind the eyes after too many airports, too many apologies from airline staff, and one very persistent sense that the universe was testing his patience for sport.
The flights had been late. Both of them. By the time he collected his bag and rented a car that smelled faintly of something pretending to be pine, the sky had already sunk into deep blue. Snow fell steadily, soft and endless, as if it had been waiting for him.
The drive north felt unreal. The road was quiet, bordered by trees heavy with snow, the world narrowed to headlights and breath and the gentle crunch beneath the tires. No cameras. No people recognizing him. No one asking him how he was really doing, with that look that meant we read everything.
Good, he thought. This was exactly why he’d come.
The cabin appeared suddenly, tucked between the trees like it had been placed there on purpose and then forgotten. Bojan slowed, relief already loosening something in his chest.
Then he noticed the car.
It stood parked neatly by the side of the cabin, half-dusted with snow. Bojan frowned and turned off the engine. He sat there for a moment, listening to the quiet tick of cooling metal.
He checked the address on his phone. No signal, but the downloaded confirmation was still there. Cabin name. Dates. Everything correct. He glanced up again at the unfamiliar car, its windshield iced over, as if it had been there for a while.
Maybe the owner? he thought. Or maintenance? The idea didn’t sit well, but the cold was already creeping in, and exhaustion won the argument. He grabbed his bag, stepped out into the snow, and pulled his coat tighter around himself. The air was sharp and clean, biting at his lungs in a way that felt almost medicinal.
As he walked toward the door, his boots sinking slightly with each step, he noticed a second detail that made him pause.
The porch light was on.
Bojan stopped at the bottom of the steps, snow drifting lazily around him, and stared at the warmly lit cabin as if it might explain itself.
After two delayed flights, a long drive, and the very first night of the peace he’d been craving, the last thing he expected was company.
He sighed softly, shook his head, and muttered to no one in particular, “Of course.” Then he climbed the steps and reached for the door.
Bojan’s hand hovered in front of the door, fingers stiff from the cold and from hesitation. He stared at the wood grain as if it might rearrange itself into an explanation if he looked long enough.
He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging up in front of him, and leaned his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window beside the door. Inside, the light was warm—yellow, inviting. Someone was already settled in. Comfortable.
The thought made something in his chest tighten, sharp and unexpected.
He had chosen this place carefully.
Remote. Quiet. No chance encounters. No accidental conversations that started with I’m sorry, but has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like-
Here, he was supposed to be anonymous. Just another man in winter boots and a heavy coat, tired and ordinary and blissfully invisible.
Apparently, the universe disagreed.
Bojan straightened and glanced down at himself, absurdly aware of how he looked even though no one was watching. Dark coat, snow clinging to the hem. Rings catching the porch light when he moved his hands. He pushed his longer dark hair back from his face, annoyed that it immediately fell forward again. He really needed a haircut. Or a nap. Preferably both.
His reflection stared back at him from the window—brown eyes rimmed with exhaustion, familiar features that had been on too many posters lately. The kind of face people projected things onto. Desires. Expectations. Headlines.
Not here, he thought firmly. Here I’m just… Bojan.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the instinctive tension that came with the idea of a stranger. He wasn’t afraid—just tired. Tired of performing politeness, of managing impressions, of being on.
Maybe the other person would take one look at him and immediately clock who he was. Maybe this whole trip would unravel right here on a snowy porch in Lapland.
Or—another, quieter thought slipped in—maybe they wouldn’t.
Maybe whoever was inside was just someone else who had arrived late, equally annoyed, equally desperate for silence. Someone who didn’t care about anything beyond a warm meal and a working heater.
The thought soothed him more than he expected.
Bojan closed his eyes for a second, breathed in the cold, clean air, and made a decision. One conversation. Calm. Polite. Then he’d figure out what to do.
He reached for the handle at last, fingers brushing cold metal, his pulse steadying. Okay, he thought. Let’s see who I’m sharing my peace with.
And then he opened the door.
❄️❄️❄️
The door opened with a soft creak, letting the cold spill inside.
Warmth hit Bojan first—woodsmoke, something vaguely spicy from food that had been cooked recently. His shoulders relaxed instinctively before his brain caught up.
And then he saw him.
The man stood in the middle of the living room, frozen mid-motion, a mug in one hand. He was around Bojan’s age, maybe a few years older. Not very tall—shorter than Bojan—but broad-shouldered in a way that suggested quiet strength rather than gym obsession. Dark hair, cut short and neat, a well-kept beard framing a mouth that clearly knew how to smirk.
Jewelry caught the light as he moved: earrings, a small nose ring, a chain at his neck. Rings on his fingers. Black nail polish, chipped slightly at the edges. All of it somehow looked… intentional. Comfortable. Like he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone.
Bojan’s brain stalled.
What the hell.
The stranger looked up fully now, eyes widening just a fraction before flicking—very quickly—over Bojan’s face. Not in recognition. In assessment. Curiosity, not calculation.
" Oho,” the man said, blinking once, “Joko mä oon paljon väsyneempi kuin luulin… kai sä olet ihan oikea etkä mikään harhanäky? ”
Bojan stared at him. Blankly. His brain offered nothing. Not even a guess.
“…Sorry?” he said at last, blinking back.
The man froze.
“Oh.” He winced, already rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Okay. That makes sense. Uh—English?”
“Yes,” Bojan said, relief and confusion colliding at once. “English would be… great.”
The man nodded, visibly recalibrating.
“Well,” he tried again, switching languages smoothly, “either I’m way more jet-lagged than I thought.. You are real right? Not some delusion."
Bojan stared.
Up close, the man was distractingly real. Warm. Solid. There was something sharp behind the humor, something alert and intelligent that made Bojan feel suddenly, inexplicably seen. Not the way cameras saw him. Not the way fans did.
Just… seen.
And his accent—
Bojan’s thoughts stuttered.
Why does that accent sound like that?
Not too heavy. Not too forced. Just soft edges, vowels slightly rounded, consonants confident and calm.
Ridiculous, he told himself. Focus Bojan.
“I—” Bojan started, then stopped, because his mouth clearly hadn’t checked in with his brain before opening. He closed it again, cleared his throat, and tried once more. “This is… my cabin. I have rented this, for two weeks. ”
The man snorted. Actually snorted.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing around the room, then back at Bojan. “Funny thing about that. I was just thinking the exact same thing.”
They stood there for a beat, the fire popping loudly behind them, snow swirling in through the still-open door.
Bojan became acutely aware of everything at once: the weight of his coat, the cold creeping into his boots, the way the other man’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long before politely pulling away.
You came here for peace, he reminded himself. Instead, he’d apparently walked straight into a very attractive problem with black nail polish, good timing, and—unfortunately—a really nice English accent.
What the hell, indeed.
❄️❄️❄️
Bojan finally stepped fully inside and pulled the door shut behind him, sealing the cold out. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just… uncertain. Like neither of them quite knew which version of the situation they were supposed to be in.
“I’m Bojan,” he said, offering his hand out of habit.
The man adjusted the mug, then took it, his grip warm and firm. Rings pressed briefly against Bojan’s fingers.
“Jere,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Even if… you know. Circumstances.”
He smiled—easy, crooked, entirely unbothered by the fact that a stranger had just walked into his cabin. His eyes flicked to Bojan’s face again, thoughtful but relaxed.
Not startled.
Not suspicious.
Not even curious in that way.
Bojan felt something inside him tilt.
Usually, there was a moment. A flicker. The pause where people squinted at him, mentally scrolling through billboards, album covers, gossip articles. Sometimes they hid it well. Sometimes they didn’t.
Jere just looked at him like he was… just a guy. A tired guy who’d arrived late and probably needed food.
“Oh,” Jere added, suddenly remembering himself. “Sorry, I probably should explain. I booked this place months ago. Romantic getaway. Very original. Turns out my ex was less committed to the concept.”
He gestured vaguely, like the explanation ended there, which it apparently did.
Bojan nodded, a little too slowly.
He really doesn’t know me, Bojan realized. The thought landed gently, like snow instead of ice.
“You’re… obviously not from around here,” Jere went on, glancing at him again, this time with mild curiosity.
“No,” Bojan said. “ I'm from Slovenia.”
“Nice,” Jere said immediately. “I’ve never been. Sounds warmer than this.”
“Usually,” Bojan agreed.
Another pause. Jere waited, clearly expecting nothing more. No follow-up questions. No widening eyes. No oh my god.
Bojan felt a ridiculous urge to smile.
“So,” Jere said at last, lifting his mug slightly. “Either one of us is very bad at reading booking confirmations, or the system messed up. But it’s late, it’s snowing, and I’m guessing you don’t want to drive back out there.”
“No,” Bojan said. “I really don’t.”
“Cool. Then we’re on the same page.” Jere grinned. “We can be adults about this.”
❄️❄️❄️
Jere took over the kitchen like he’d always belonged there.
Not in a showy way—no dramatic knife skills or unnecessary commentary—but with the relaxed confidence of someone who actually knew what he was doing. He set Bojan’s bag down by the wall with his foot, moved a chair out of the way, and tied an apron around his waist that looked faintly ridiculous over a black hoodie.
Bojan watched from the small dining table, phone in hand, typing a polite but increasingly annoyed message to the cabin rental service.
Hello, we have a situation—
Delete.
Hi, we’ve both booked the same cabin—
Pause.
It’s snowing, we’re tired, please help.
The message failed to send.
Bojan stared at the screen.
Then tried again.
Nothing.
“Oh, come on,” he muttered, irritation slipping into his voice. He switched languages without realizing it, a sharp curse escaping under his breath. “Of course there’s no signal.”
He lifted the phone, tilted it slightly, frowned at it like it had personally betrayed him.
Behind him, the sound of chopping continued—steady, rhythmic, annoyingly calm.
“You cook a lot?” Bojan asked, mostly to distract himself.
Jere shrugged without looking up. “Enough not to starve. Turns out learning to cook is cheaper than therapy.”
Bojan snorted, then covered it with a cough. He glanced at his phone again, scowling.
“There’s no reception,” he said flatly.
Jere finally looked over. “No bars?”
“Not a single one.”
Jere nodded like this was deeply unsurprising. “Okay. Try standing between the fireplace and the window.”
Bojan blinked. “What.”
“That’s the magic spot,” Jere said. “Old cabins. Don’t ask.”
Suspicious but desperate, Bojan stood up and wedged himself awkwardly between the stone fireplace and the frosted window, arm raised like he was attempting a ritual.
One bar flickered.
Bojan froze.
Then it vanished.
Bojan exhaled slowly. “What’s the other option.”
Jere smiled. “You go outside.”
Bojan stared at him. Then at the snow piling up beyond the glass.
“I hate everything,” he said calmly.
Outside, the cold hit immediately. Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped into the yard, phone held up like a fragile instrument of hope. He turned in a slow circle. Lifted the phone. Lowered it. Took three careful steps to the left.
Nothing.
Snowflakes settled into his hair and collar. He squinted at the screen, moved again, arm raised high above his head like he was offering the phone to the forest itself.
One bar appeared.
Bojan froze completely.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered.
The bar vanished.
He groaned, tipping his head back. “You have got to be kidding me.”
From inside, Jere watched him through the window—pacing, turning, stretching his arm out at impossible angles like a very confused penguin.
He knocked on the glass. “Try the corner by the steps!”
Bojan shot him a glare. “If I fall, this is your fault.”
He shuffled toward the steps, dignity long gone, leaned sideways against the railing, and stretched his arm out over the snowbank.
Two bars.
“Yes,” Bojan breathed. “Okay. Okay.”
He typed furiously with numb fingers, every word a race against disappearing reception. The message finally sent with a soft whoosh just as the signal died again.
Bojan let his arm drop and stood there for a moment, alone in the snow, breath fogging, phone useless.
Then he laughed. Quietly. At himself.
“This,” he said out loud, “is ridiculous.”
The cabin door opened behind him, spilling warmth and light into the night.
Jere stepped out, grinning, blanket in hand. “Did you win?”
Bojan turned, cheeks red, snow in his hair. “I humiliated myself for one stupid message.”
Jere wrapped the blanket around his shoulders anyway. “You looked very heroic.”
“I looked like I was summoning aliens.”
“Same thing,” Jere said, steering him back inside. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Bojan let himself be pulled into the warmth, snow melting onto the floor, thinking—not for the first time—that this whole situation was already far more ridiculous, and far better, than it had any right to be.
They ate at the small wooden table, plates steaming between them, the fire crackling softly in the background. Bojan took his first bite and paused.
Then he took another.
“This is…” He searched for the right word, eyebrows lifting. “Really good.”
Jere looked up, clearly pleased but pretending not to be. “Is that a genuine compliment or a polite guest lie?”
“Genuine,” Bojan said. “I would not lie about food.”
“Good rule.”
Bojan ate more slowly now, actually tasting it. “You’re a better cook than I am.”
“Oh?” Jere leaned back in his chair. “Confession time?”
“I burn pasta,” Bojan admitted solemnly. “Not every time. But often enough to be statistically concerning.”
Jere burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.
“Pasta?” he managed. “That’s… impressive.”
“I once set off a fire alarm making toast.”
“Okay, no. Now you’re just showing off.”
Bojan smiled, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the fire. “I’m good at other things,” he said mildly.
“I’m sure you are,” Jere replied, meeting his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Bojan felt it then—that small, unexpected comfort of sharing a meal with someone who didn’t want anything from him. No recognition. No expectations. Just conversation and food and the quiet hum of being temporarily at ease.
His phone lay on the table beside his plate.
Bojan glanced at it, then picked it up. No signal. No bars. Just the faint reminder that the message had gone through earlier.
“I guess we’ll find out eventually,” he said, setting the phone back down. “If they even see it.”
Jere shrugged, completely at ease. “We’re in Lapland. Everyone knows reception barely works out here.”
Bojan looked at him.
“So yeah,” Jere continued, casual but certain. “If there’s a trouble, the owner usually just comes by in person. Small places. Less emails, more knocking on the door.”
Bojan let out a quiet breath, tension easing from his shoulders. “That actually makes sense.”
Jere smiled. “It usually does.”
He lifted his glass slightly. “So. One night.”
“One night,” Bojan agreed.
They ate in companionable silence after that, plates slowly emptying, snow continuing to fall outside—unbothered by reception, replies, or the simple fact that in Lapland, things tended to sort themselves out face to face.
Jere leaned back in his chair, arms stretched over his head with a satisfied sigh.
“Okay,” he said. “Confession time, I guess.”
Bojan looked up a little too quickly, then immediately reminded himself to not stare.
Or drool.
Or visibly react every time Jere spoke.
“That sounds ominous,” Bojan said lightly.
“Nah. Just… honesty.” Jere shrugged, relaxed. “ I live in Vantaa. I’m thirty years old. Recently single. Found out my girlfriend had been… multitasking.”
Bojan winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Jere said, rolling his shoulders. “Could’ve been worse. At least I didn’t find out via a friend-of-a-friend Instagram story.”
Bojan blinked. “That happens?”
“Oh, constantly,” Jere said. “It’s a modern art form.”
Despite himself, Bojan smiled. Don’t stare, he reminded himself again, as Jere leaned forward to grab his mug. The firelight caught on the rings on his fingers, the black polish on his nails. And his accent—soft, unhurried, wrapping itself around English like it belonged there.
This is absurd, Bojan thought. Get it together.
“I sell home appliances,” Jere continued. “Washing machines, dishwashers. And on the side—music. Mostly rap.”
“Rap?” Bojan echoed, genuinely curious.
“Yeah.” Jere grinned. “I know, I don’t exactly look like I should be threatening anyone with lyrics.”
“You could surprise people,” Bojan said.
“That’s the goal.”
There was a brief pause, the kind that felt like an invitation rather than a demand.
“And you?” Jere asked, tone easy. “What brings you all the way up here?”
Bojan hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his mug.
“I've graduated from university, I studied sociology. I just.. I needed a break,” he said finally. “From… everything.”That part was honest.
“I also recently ended a relationship.”
Jere’s expression softened immediately—not pitying, just understanding.
“Rough?
“Yes,” Bojan said. “It was… difficult.”
Jere nodded once and left it at that.
No probing. No curiosity dressed up as concern. No tell me more hanging in the air.
Bojan felt something loosen in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Jere said simply.
“Thank you.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, firelight flickering between them. Bojan focused very hard on his tea, on the crackle of the logs, on literally anything that wasn’t the way Jere’s voice dipped slightly at the ends of sentences.
Why is that accent like that, he thought helplessly. That should not be legal.
Jere shifted in his chair, glancing at him with a small, curious smile. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Bojan said a little too fast. “Just… tired.”
“Fair.” Jere chuckled. “ it's bee a long day.”
Bojan smiled, warmth spreading through him—not dramatic, not overwhelming. Just quiet and real.
For the first time in a long while, being here didn’t feel like running away.
It felt like resting.
By the time the fire burned lower and the clock slipped past anything reasonable, the cabin had settled into a soft, sleepy quiet.
Jere stood up first, stretching. “Okay,” he said, glancing toward the hallway. “Small logistical update before we pass out.”
Bojan looked up from his mug, already half-exhausted. “That sounds.. Not so promising.”
“It’s fine,” Jere said quickly. “Just—there’s only one bedroom. One bed.”
Bojan paused. The information landed slowly, like his brain had to cross a snowdrift to reach it.
“…Right.
“There is a loft in the living room,” Jere added, already grabbing a blanket. “Mattress up there. I’ll take it.”
Bojan opened his mouth, intending—he thought—to protest. Or at least to insist they discuss it properly.
Instead, he yawned.
Deeply.
Betrayingly.
Jere raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you don’t have a strong opinions right now.”
“I had them,” Bojan said, rubbing his eyes. “Earlier today. They have… left me.”
Jere smiled, soft and understanding. “Then it’s settled. You take the bed. I’ll survive the loft.”
Bojan hesitated, guilt stirring faintly beneath the exhaustion. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” Jere said without hesitation. “I’ve slept on worse. And honestly? After today, I could sleep standing up.”
Bojan nodded, too tired to argue further. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Jere said, already heading toward the ladder. “If I fall in the night, just pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I will deny everything.”
Jere laughed quietly as he climbed up, disappearing into the loft.
It was strange, sharing space with someone he’d met only hours ago.
But it didn’t feel unsafe.
Bojan lay back, exhaustion finally pulling him under, and let himself sleep.
❄️❄️❄️
Bojan woke slowly, the kind of slow that surprised him. No half-formed anxiety already waiting for him.
No replay of conversations he wished he’d handled differently.
Just warmth. Quiet. And the faint, comforting realization that he’d slept straight through the night.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking.
He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Months, at least. His body felt loose, unguarded, like it had finally believed—just for one night—that nothing was required of him.
Then he noticed the smell.
Coffee.
Bojan sat up, running a hand through his hair, and followed the sounds toward the kitchen.
And promptly forgot how to think.
Jere stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
No shirt.
Sunlight from the window caught on his shoulders, the lines of muscle in his back relaxed and unselfconscious. A spatula rested in one hand. Coffee steamed beside him.
Bojan stopped dead.
Oh.
His brain attempted to reboot. Failed. Tried again.
This is not helpful, he thought vaguely. This is… actively unhelpful.
Jere turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Morning.”
The word—morning—in that accent, soft and unguarded, finished what the visual had started.
Bojan’s brain went fully offline.
“…Morning,” he managed, several seconds too late.
“You sleep okay?” Jere asked, flipping something in the pan with easy confidence.
“Yes,” Bojan said honestly, “ I slept very well.”
Jere smiled at that, pleased. “Good. Coffee’s almost done. Eggs too.”
Bojan nodded, because words were currently unreliable.
He became intensely interested in the mug on the counter. And the window. And anything that was not the way sunlight traced the curve of Jere’s shoulder when he moved.
Do not stare, he told himself firmly.
Absolutely do not stare.
He failed.
Jere set a plate down in front of him a moment later, finally turning fully toward him. “Hope you’re not expecting anything fancy.”
Bojan looked at the food, then up at Jere, then back at the food.
“This is already far beyond my expectations,” he said sincerely.
Jere laughed. “High praise.”
They sat down to eat, the morning easy and unhurried. Outside, the snow lay untouched and quiet. Inside, Bojan sipped his coffee, warmth settling into him in a way that felt dangerous and wonderful all at once.
He’d come here to disappear for a while.
Instead, he thought—watching Jere across the table, relaxed, real—
he might have accidentally found something he wasn’t ready to leave just yet.
❄️❄️❄️
They’d just finished breakfast when the sound of tires crunching on snow cut through the quiet.
Jere glanced toward the window. “Someone is outside. ”
Bojan looked up from his mug, heart doing a small, unreasonable jump. “Is that…?”
“Probably the cabin owner,” Jere said, already standing. “Timing’s not terrible. At least we’re fed.”
A few minutes later, boots thudded on the porch. The door opened to let in a burst of cold air—and a man in his fifties with a weathered face and a thick winter jacket.
Jere switched to Finnish without hesitation.
“Huomenta.”
“Huomenta,” the man replied, nodding. “Teillä taisi olla täällä varausongelma.”
“Joo,” Jere said, leaning casually against the counter. “Kaksi varausta samaan mökkiin. Järjestelmävirhe luultavasti.”
The man sighed, already tired of the sentence. “Niin ajattelinkin.”
Bojan stood a little to the side, pretending very hard not to stare at Jere’s hands while he talked. Finnish rolled off his tongue smoothly, confidently—another thing Bojan absolutely did not need added to the list.
They talked for a few minutes. Calm. Practical. Lots of nodding. A shrug. A disappointed grunt.
Then Jere turned toward Bojan.
“Okay,” he said in English, softening his tone automatically. “So. Short version.”
Bojan braced himself.
“He checked all the other cabins,” Jere continued. “Everything’s full. Like—really full. Winter season, weekend, last-minute chaos.”
Bojan blinked. “None?”
Jere shook his head. “None.”
There was a pause. Not dramatic. Just… reality settling in.
“So,” Bojan said carefully, “what does that mean?”
Jere glanced at the owner again, exchanged a few more words in Finnish, then looked back at Bojan.
“It means,” he said, a hint of apologetic humor creeping in, “that unless one of us wants to sleep in the car—or wrestle a reindeer for shelter—this is still the only option.”
Bojan exhaled slowly. Strangely, he didn’t feel disappointed.
The owner cleared his throat, switching briefly to English himself.
“You can stay if you like of course,” he said. “You will receive a refund for this. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“It’s okay,” Bojan said honestly.
Jere nodded. “Yeah. We’ll manage.”
The man left soon after, the sound of his car fading back into the snowy distance.
Silence returned to the cabin.
“Well,” Jere said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. “Looks like we’re… roommates.”
Bojan met his eyes, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It seems so.”
And for reasons he wasn’t quite ready to examine, the idea didn’t bother him at all.
By evening, the wind had picked up again. Snow rattled against the windows, thick and relentless.
They settled on the couch, a music playing softly in the background. The fire glowed low and steady. Jere grabbed a blanket and tossed it over both of them without comment.
Bojan stiffened for half a second.
Then relaxed.
Their shoulders touched. Then stayed that way.
Warmth seeped through the blanket, through layers of fabric, through the simple fact of another person being there. Jere smelled faintly of soap and cold air.
❄️❄️❄️
The storm had moved on sometime during the night, leaving the world buried under a thick, unapologetic layer of snow.
Bojan stared out the window the next morning, coffee in hand, and processed the scene slowly.
The cabin was half-swallowed.
The path was gone.
And the cars—
“Oh,” he said quietly.
The cars were no longer cars, and the
snowbanks rose around them like nature had decided to redecorate.
“Well,” Jere said, already pulling on gloves and jacket. “Welcome to a very Finnish activity.”
Bojan blinked. “Let me guess. Sauna?”
“Later,” Jere said cheerfully. “First—snow shoveling.”
Outside, the air was sharp and clean, the kind that woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. Jere handed Bojan a shovel like this was a perfectly normal way to start a day.
They worked side by side at first, rhythm settling in—push, lift, toss.
Snow flew. Breaths fogged.
Bojan quickly learned two things.
One: snow removal was far more physical than it looked.
Two: this was absolutely why Jere was built the way he was.
Jere moved with easy strength, shoulders flexing under his jacket, motions practiced and efficient. Every now and then he paused to knock snow off his gloves, laughing when it got everywhere instead.
Bojan tried very hard to focus on his own shoveling.
He failed.
His gaze drifted.
Once.
Twice.
Okay, he thought. That’s… objectively rude. He redirected his attention to the car. The snow. The task.
And then Jere bent forward to dig near a tire.
Bojan’s brain promptly betrayed him.
He stared a second longer than was strictly polite.
Stop, he told himself firmly.
You are a grown man.
As if summoned by the universe’s sense of humor, Jere straightened and glanced over. “You good?”
Bojan jerked his gaze upward immediately. “Yes. Fine. Just—admiring Finnish efficiency.”
Jere grinned. “Yeah, we’re very proud of our snow-management culture.”
They kept working, laughter slipping in between breaths, until the cars slowly re-emerged from their snowy tombs. When they finally stopped, both of them were flushed, slightly sweaty, and grinning like idiots.
Jere leaned on his shovel. “See?
Productive bonding.”
Bojan laughed, warm and breathless. “I think I’ve earned coffee. And possibly a medal.”
“You’ll get coffee,” Jere said. “The medal we’ll see.”
They headed back inside, boots heavy with snow, the cabin welcoming them with warmth again.
Bojan followed a step behind, very deliberately keeping his eyes where they belonged.
Mostly.
Jere kicked the snow off his boots by the door and stretched, shoulders rolling with a satisfied groan.
“Okay,” he said. “After that, there’s only one correct next step.”
Bojan raised an eyebrow. “Food?”
“Later,” Jere said. “Sauna.”
Bojan blinked. “Sauna.”
“Yes,” Jere nodded seriously. “Mandatory. Snow shoveling rules.”
“I didn’t see that in the booking description.”
“It’s implied.”
Before Bojan could question it further, Jere was already moving, disappearing briefly into the back of the cabin. Bojan followed, curious and already a little suspicious. A few minutes later, the low hum of heating stones filled the air.
The sauna was small, wooden, intimate in that this-is-definitely-not-a-public-space way. Steam curled faintly in the warm air.
Jere stopped in the doorway and turned, suddenly looking almost… sheepish.
“Right,” he said. “ There's a small cultural note.”
Bojan folded his arms. “I feel like this should have come earlier.”
“Probably,” Jere agreed. “Traditionally, sauna is… we go naked.”
Bojan froze.
“…What.”
Jere grinned. “Yeah.”
There was a very long pause.
Bojan stared at him, then at the sauna, then back at him. “Together.”
“Yes.”
“In the same room.”
“Yes.”
“Naked.”
“Yes,” Jere said quickly, then lifted a finger. “But. Seeing as you look like you might actually short-circuit, I can compromise.”
He grabbed a towel. “This once. For international relations.”
Bojan exhaled, deeply and dramatically. “Thank you. I appreciate your diplomacy.”
They stepped inside.
The heat hit immediately—deep, enveloping, loosening muscles Bojan hadn’t realized were clenched. He sat down carefully, focusing very hard on the wooden bench in front of him.
“Okay,” Jere said lightly. “We’ll turn around.”
“Yes,” Bojan said far too fast. “That sounds… excellent.”
They both turned their backs to each other with exaggerated care.
Bojan focused very intently on the wooden wall in front of him. On the grain. On the knots. On absolutely anything except the sounds behind him.
Fabric rustled.
You are a grown man, he told himself. You can handle this.
“You good?” Jere asked casually.
“Yes,” Bojan replied, staring at the wall like it held the secrets of the universe. “Perfectly fine. Extremely normal.”
“Cool.”
They went inside.
Bojan sit down carefully on the bench, eyes fixed firmly forward.
Jere sat next to him.
With a towel.
Bojan nodded once, satisfied. Crisis avoided. Dignity… mostly intact.
He fixed his gaze on the wall. The bench. The floor. Anything except—
Do not look, he told himself.
Do not think.
Steam rose as Jere ladled water onto the stones. The hiss filled the room, followed by a wave of heat that made Bojan suck in a breath.
“Okay,” he admitted. “This is… actually amazing.”
Jere smiled, relaxed now. “Told you.”
They sat in comfortable silence, sweat beading on skin, the outside world completely forgotten. Bojan felt lighter. Calmer. Like something heavy had finally loosened its grip.
He risked a glance.
Immediately regretted it.
Jere leaned back, eyes closed, completely at ease, towel hanging on by sheer determination and good intentions.
Bojan looked away instantly.
Absolutely not, he thought. I am not strong enough for this.
Jere opened one eye. “You okay over there?”
“Yes,” Bojan said too quickly. “Very. Just… warm.”
Jere chuckled. “That’s the point.”
Bojan closed his eyes and focused on breathing, heat, and the fact that this—somehow—was the most relaxed he’d felt in a very long time.
Finland was dangerous place.
Very dangerous.
“You ready for the second part?” Jere asked casually, standing up.
Bojan opened one eye. “Second part.”
“Yeah. Cool-down.”
Bojan frowned. “Cool-down like… opening a window?”
Jere smiled. Not helpfully.
“No,” he said. “Like a snow.”
Bojan sat up slowly. “Snow… as in—”
“Outside,” Jere said, already reaching for the door handle. “You go out. You roll around a bit. Then you come back in.”
Bojan stared at him.
Silence.
“…You roll,” Bojan repeated.
“Yes.”
“In the snow.”
“Yes.”
“After sauna.”
“Correct.”
“Naked.”
Jere paused, then nodded. “Traditionally, yes.”
Bojan made a sound somewhere between disbelief and a strangled laugh. “You people are unhinged.”
Jere grinned. “We build character.”
Before Bojan could argue further, the sauna door opened and cold air rushed in like a personal insult. Steam swirled violently.
“Just trust me,” Jere said. “Five seconds. Ten, max. In and out.”
Bojan stood there, heart racing, every instinct screaming absolutely not.
And yet—
Somehow—
He followed.
The door opened fully. Night air slammed into him. Snow glittered under the lights, pristine and merciless.
“This is a terrible idea,” Bojan said.
“Probably,” Jere agreed cheerfully.
And then Jere stepped out into the snow like this was a completely normal thing that happened every day.
Bojan took one step.
Then another.
The cold hit like a shockwave. He gasped, laughter bursting out of him uncontrollably as his feet sank into the snow.
And then—before Bojan could ask any follow-up questions—Jere reached down, untied the towel, and tossed it aside like it was an afterthought.
It landed in the snow with a soft, traitorous plof.
Bojan stopped breathing.
“You—” he started, then stopped entirely as Jere stretched once, completely unbothered by the laws of decency or survival.
“What?” Jere asked innocently.
“You’re supposed to do this properly.”
“This,” Bojan said faintly, “was not part of the briefing.”
Jere just grinned—and jumped into the snow.
Bojan stared.
Absolutely stared.
Jere landed with a dramatic thump, laughing like this was the best idea he’d ever had.
Bojan looked at him.
Then at the snow.
Then down at his own towel.
He let out a long, resigned sigh.
“What even is dignity,” he muttered.
He dropped the towel.
Cold everywhere.
Snow everywhere.
All self-respect left somewhere back in the sauna.
He followed Jere, laughter tearing out of him as he rolled clumsily into the snow, limbs protesting, brain fully offline.
“This is insane,” he gasped.
Jere laughed, breathless and bright. “You’re doing great.”
“Lies,” Bojan said.
“BACK IN,” Jere suddenly shouted, scrambling up.
They bolted for the sauna like their lives depended on it, slipping, laughing, nearly colliding in the doorway as they tumbled back inside.
The heat wrapped around them instantly.
Bojan collapsed onto the bench, breathless, heart pounding, face burning.
“I—” he tried. Failed. Laughed instead. “I cannot believe I just did that.”
Jere was grinning like an idiot, steam rising around them. “See? You survived.”
Bojan wiped his face, still laughing. “I’m never trusting you again.”
“You absolutely will,” Jere said. “Next time’s ice swimming.”
Bojan stared at him in horror.
“There will be no next time.”
Jere just laughed.
And despite himself—despite the cold, the shock, the sheer absurdity of it all—Bojan realized something as the heat settled back into his bones.
He hadn’t laughed like this in a long time.
Finland, he decided, was deeply suspicious.
But… kind of amazing.
❄️❄️❄️
First week passed almost without Bojan noticing.
They slipped into a rhythm so natural it felt suspicious, like something that should have required discussion or negotiation—but never did.
Jere cooked. Always with quiet confidence, music playing softly from his phone, sleeves pushed up, movements practiced and relaxed. Bojan washed the dishes afterward, standing at the sink with warm water and fogged windows, listening to Jere talk about nothing and everything at once.
They went outside every day, no matter the weather. Walks through snow-heavy trees, slow and unhurried. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Silence never felt like something that needed fixing.
In the evenings, the cabin grew small and golden with lamplight. They read—Bojan with a book he’d brought and barely expected to open, Jere with something dog-eared and well-loved.
Other nights they played games.
Alias, mostly.
Jere was infuriatingly good at it.
“No, no,” he said, laughing, “you’re thinking too complicated. It’s basically a thing, but louder.”
“That is not a clue,” Bojan protested.
“It absolutely is.”
Somehow, it worked.
What surprised Bojan most wasn’t Jere’s competitiveness or his quick thinking—it was the way he listened. Really listened. He remembered small things. Asked thoughtful questions. Knew when to joke and when to let a moment breathe.
Almost perfect, Bojan thought once, the realization startling in its clarity.
Almost.
And the strangest part was how… normal it all felt.
As if this—shared meals, cold walks, warm evenings—was something Bojan had done before. Something he was allowed to want.
Slovenia began to feel distant. Not gone, exactly, but flattened. Like a life viewed through glass. The noise, the schedules, the expectations—it all belonged to someone else. Someone far away.
Here, he was just Bojan.
Not famous. Not observed. Not bracing himself for the next question.
Just a man drying his hands on a kitchen towel while someone he liked argued passionately about a board game rule.
It felt dangerous, how quickly home had redefined itself.
And yet—standing there, watching Jere grin at a victory he absolutely did not deserve—Bojan couldn’t bring himself to wish it away.
❄️❄️❄️
In Lapland, distance had a very different meaning.
“Fifty kilometers,” Jere said cheerfully, pulling his jacket on. “ It’s basically just around the corner.”
Bojan stared at him. “In Slovenia that would be a trip.”
“In Lapland,” Jere replied, already reaching for the car keys, “that’s errands.”
The road stretched ahead of them, white and endless, trees standing like quiet witnesses on either side. Jere drove with easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, music low in the background. The world outside felt distant and soft, as if they were moving through a snow globe.
For a while, Bojan enjoyed it.
Then the signal came back.
His phone vibrated once.
Then again.
Then it didn’t stop.
Bojan frowned, pulling it from his pocket just as it lit up with notification after notification.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
“What?” Jere asked, eyes still on the road.
“My phone just remembered I exist.”
The screen was chaos.
Missed messages.
Missed calls.
Names stacking on top of each other like they’d been waiting just out of reach.
His manager.
The band chat — exploding with unread messages.
His mother.
And, inexplicably, his ex.
Bojan leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
“That bad?” Jere asked gently.
“Very,” Bojan said. “Apparently the outside world has opinions.”
Jere chuckled. “Shocking.”
Bojan scrolled anyway, thumb moving automatically. His manager’s messages were polite but urgent. Schedules. Interviews.
The band chat was louder — jokes, concern, thinly veiled stress.
He didn’t open the message from his ex.
Not yet. Or maybe never.
“You don’t have to deal with it now,” Jere said, as if reading his mind.
Bojan smiled faintly.
The phone buzzed again.
Bojan turned it face-down on his lap.
For the first time since arriving in Finland, the bubble thinned. Slovenia crept closer, pixel by pixel, reminder by reminder. Responsibilities tugged at him, familiar and heavy.
He looked out the window instead, watching snow blur past.
“Sorry,” he said suddenly. “If I seem… distracted.”
Jere shrugged. “You’re allowed a life outside grocery shopping.”
Bojan laughed softly. “Barely.”
They drove on, silence settling again — not as deep as before, but still there. The town appeared gradually, lights and buildings rising from the white like something unreal.
Jere slowed the car. “Okay,” he said. “Welcome to civilization. You ready?”
Bojan picked up his phone, hesitated, then slid it into his pocket without unlocking the screen.
“Not yet,” he said. “Let’s buy food first.”
Jere smiled, approving. “Good call.”
They parked, the cold biting immediately as they stepped outside. Bojan breathed it in, steadying himself.
The world could wait a little longer.
After all — he was only here because of the wrong cabin.
They stopped at a service station on the edge of town, the kind that glowed too brightly against the snow, humming with quiet efficiency. Jere pulled up to the pump and stretched.
“Fuel for the car,” he said. “And for us.”
Bojan nodded, already feeling the strange comfort of routine settling in.
Inside, it smelled like coffee and something fried. Jere grabbed snacks with purpose, then paused.
“Bathroom,” he said, pointing. “I’ll be back.”
As soon as he disappeared, Bojan took out his phone.
The signal was strong here. Unavoidable.
He opened the band chat first. Typed fast.
"I’m okay. Still in Finland. Needed some quiet. Will explain later. Miss you idiots."
A beat. Then a heart from Jan. A thumbs-up from Kris and Jure. A joke from Nace that made Bojan smile despite himself.
He messaged his mother next.
"I’m fine. Resting. I’ll call soon."
He didn’t open the message from his ex. Didn’t even hover over it. Some things didn’t deserve energy anymore.
Then he stepped a little aside, phone to his ear, and called his manager.
“Hey,” he said when the line connected. “Yeah. I know. I’m alive.”
A pause. Listening. He stared out the window at the snow, the car idling outside.
“I’ve been thinking,” Bojan said quietly. “And I need to change things. I’m stepping back from films. Not forever. But for now.”
“I want to focus on music,” he continued. “Write. Record. No interviews. No appearances. Just… music.”
The words felt solid as he said them. Real. Like something he’d finally decided instead of reacted to.
“I know,” he added, softer. “I’ll deal with the consequences. I just—this matters.”
When he ended the call, he didn’t feel dread.
He felt light.
Jere came back a moment later, hands damp, expression relaxed. “All good?”
Bojan slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah,” he said. And meant it.
They paid, stepped back out into the cold, steam rising from their breath. Jere handed him a coffee without asking.
Back in the car, the engine hummed to life. The road waited.
Bojan took a sip, warmth spreading, and looked out at the snow-covered world again. Slovenia felt distant—not erased, but quieter now. Manageable.
Jere pulled onto the road. “Ready to head back?”
Bojan nodded, settling into the seat. “Yeah.”
The cabin was waiting.
❄️❄️❄️
They unpacked the groceries methodically. Jere stacked things into cupboards with practiced ease. Bojan handed items over, reading labels aloud and mispronouncing Finnish words on purpose until Jere laughed and corrected him.
When they were done, Jere glanced at the window. “ There's still light outside .”
Bojan followed his gaze. The afternoon sun hovered low, turning the snow a pale gold. “We should go out,” he said. “Before it disappears again.”
Outside, the yard was deceptively calm. Snow looked soft and harmless, like it hadn’t been plotting anything.
They made it a few steps from the porch before Bojan’s boot hit a patch of ice hidden under powder.
There was a very undignified moment of flailing.
“Oh—”
Jere reacted on instinct. He lunged, grabbed Bojan’s arm—
—and they both went down.
Hard.
Snow exploded around them, the world tilting, a breathless oof knocked out of Bojan as they landed in a tangled heap. For a split second there was nothing but white and laughter stuck halfway in his chest.
They were… very close.
Bojan became acutely aware of Jere’s arm braced beside his shoulder. The solid warmth of him. The way their faces were far too near for this to be accidental anymore.
“Well,” Jere said, breathless, staring down at him. “That could’ve gone worse.”
Bojan laughed, helpless and a little hysterical. “You tackled me.”
“I did not. ”
“You fell on me.”
“it was a strategy. ”
They didn’t move.
Snowflakes drifted lazily down, catching in Jere’s hair, melting almost immediately. Bojan’s heart was doing something entirely uncooperative.
For one reckless second, he wondered what it would be like to close the distance.
Then Jere blinked, as if realizing the same thing, and quickly rolled onto his back beside him.
“Okay, let's go back inside, ” he said, staring up at the sky.
“Before this turns into an actual incident report.”
Bojan lay there too, laughing softly, cheeks burning from cold and something else entirely. “Agreed.”
They sat up at the same time, brushing snow off coats, pointedly not looking at each other.
“Are you okay?” Jere asked, finally.
“Yes,” Bojan said. “My dignity might need a minute.”
“Fair.”
They headed back toward the cabin, shoulders almost touching, both pretending very hard that nothing had happened.
❄️❄️❄️
Jere came back from the kitchen carrying two absolutely ridiculous mugs.
They were oversized, mismatched, filled to the brim with hot chocolate and crowned with an unreasonable amount of whipped cream. Steam curled up lazily, the smell rich and sweet.
Bojan stared. “Those are… little aggressive.”
“Recovery cocoa,” Jere said proudly. “Doctor’s orders.”
“I don’t think you’re a doctor.”
“Spiritually, I am.”
They settled at the table, boots kicked off, snow still melting from their sleeves. Bojan lifted his mug carefully—nearly burned his nose—and took a sip.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This is… very good.”
“Told you.”
Jere took a sip of his own. And that’s when it happened.
A careless tilt of the mug.
A soft pff of whipped cream.
And suddenly—
There it was.
A perfect, unmistakable streak of white caught in Jere’s moustache.
Bojan’s brain stopped.
Completely.
No warning. No graceful shutdown.
There is whipped cream in his moustache.
This is unacceptable.
There is exactly one solution.
Jere was mid-sentence, smiling, completely unaware.
“So anyway, Alias strategy is really about—”
Bojan leaned forward and kissed him.
It was quick. Soft. Barely more than a press of lips meant to fix a problem that absolutely did not require kissing.
The whipped cream was gone.
Silence fell like a dropped mug.
Bojan pulled back, eyes wide.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Jere blinked once. Then twice.
Bojan stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I— I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I mean, I do, but— that was— I should—”
He fled.
Straight down the hallway.
Into the bedroom.
Door closed. Click.
Bojan pressed his forehead against it, heart pounding like he’d just committed a crime against nature.
You kissed him, his brain screamed.
Over whipped cream.
Jere’s voice, careful and slightly amused, drifted down the hallway.
“…For the record,” he said, “that was the best possible solution to the whipped cream problem.”
Bojan groaned, slid down to sit on the floor, and covered his face.
Finland was a mistake.
A warm, cozy, whipped-cream-covered mistake.
❄️❄️❄️
Bojan waited exactly thirty seconds.
Then another ten, just to be sure.
His heart was still racing when he cracked the bedroom door open and peeked out into the hallway like a criminal returning to the scene. The cabin was quiet.
Okay, he thought. Apologize like an adult. Brief. Calm. No fleeing.
He padded back into the living room, stopping a safe distance away. Jere was standing by the table, back turned, setting the mugs down with exaggerated care.
“I’m really sorry about that,” Bojan started quickly. “I don’t know what came over me, and I completely understand if that was weird and—”
Jere turned.
And before Bojan could finish the sentence—or decide whether to keep talking or run again—Jere closed the distance and kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. Or accidental. It was deliberate, warm, and just long enough to make Bojan forget every word he’d planned.
When Jere pulled back, he was smiling.
“There,” he said lightly. “Now we’re even.”
Bojan stared at him, brain once again abandoning all responsibilities. “You—”
“Interrupted you?” Jere asked. “Yeah. Seemed fair.”
Bojan laughed, breathless and a little dazed. “I was apologizing.”
“I know.” Jere’s eyes softened. “You didn’t need to.”
They stood there for a moment, close but not touching, the air between them charged and oddly comfortable at the same time.
“So,” Jere added, glancing toward the mugs. “Hot chocolate?”
Bojan looked at the ridiculous amount of whipped cream. Then back at Jere.
“Only if you promise not to weaponize it again,” he said.
Jere grinned. “No promises.”
Bojan smiled too—wide, helpless, and completely aware that something had shifted.
Jere cleared his throat, picked up the cocoa mug like it was a perfectly normal thing to do after that, and nodded toward the shelf by the wall.
“Okay. Since we’re apparently making questionable life choices tonight— you want to play a game?”
Bojan welcomed the distraction a little too eagerly. “Yes. Please.”
Jere crouched in front of the shelf, scanning boxes and tins. “We’ve done Alias to death. Cards against… nope. Puzzle—also nope.” He paused, then laughed. “Oh no.”
“What?” Bojan asked.
Jere pulled out a small box, eyebrows raised. “This was not mine. This was definitely left by a previous couple.”
He set it on the table.
Two Truths & a Lie: Couples Edition.
Bojan stared at it. Then at Jere. “That’s… ominous.”
“Or hilarious,” Jere said. “Depending on your courage level.”
Bojan picked up the box, reading the back. Fun questions! Get to know your partner! He winced. “We are not a couple.”
Jere shrugged. “Yet this game has found us.”
“That’s not comforting.”
They sat on opposite ends of the couch anyway, box between them like a challenge.
“Rules are simple,” Jere said, opening it. “You draw a card. You answer. No pressure. We can skip anything.”
Bojan nodded. “Okay.”
Jere drew first and snorted immediately. “Oh wow. Great start.”
He read aloud: “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done on a date?”
Bojan covered his face with his hands. “This game is evil.”
Jere laughed. “Okay, fine. I’ll go.” He thought for a second. “I once went on a third date convinced we were exclusive. Turns out… we were not. I congratulated her on her anniversary.”
Bojan burst out laughing. “No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s tragic.”
“Thank you. I survived.”
They kept playing.
Some questions were ridiculous.
Some were softer.
“What makes you feel at home?”
“Warm kitchens,” Jere said. “Someone humming while they cook.”
Bojan felt something settle quietly in his chest.
By the time the box was empty, the fire had burned low and the cocoa was long gone. They sat closer now, knees nearly touching, the game forgotten on the table.
“That,” Jere said, stretching, “was unexpectedly wholesome.”
Bojan smiled. “And slightly dangerous.”
Jere glanced at him, eyes warm. “Good things usually are.”
They didn’t kiss again. Not yet.
But the air between them felt different now—easy, open, like a door left deliberately ajar.
And Bojan thought, not for the first time:
This is how it starts, isn’t it?
❄️❄️❄️
Bojan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the cabin breathe.
The fire had burned down to embers. The wind moved softly outside, snow brushing against the walls like it knew better than to interrupt. Somewhere beyond the bedroom, the loft creaked once as Jere shifted in his sleep.
That sound—small, ordinary—settled in Bojan’s chest.
What is this? he thought.
Not in panic. Not even in confusion. More like genuine curiosity, the kind that didn’t demand an immediate answer.
He’d fallen in love before. Or thought he had. Loudly. Intensely. With the kind of feelings that rushed in fast and demanded everything at once. There had always been momentum—expectations, declarations, drama dressed up as passion.
This wasn’t that.
This was quiet mornings and shared chores.
Ridiculous mugs of hot chocolate.
A hand reaching out without asking.
Silences that felt full instead of awkward.
It scared him a little.
Not because it felt wrong—but because it felt right.
He turned onto his side, staring at the faint light spilling under the bedroom door. He could still hear Jere’s laugh in his head, see the way he listened without trying to fix anything, the way he’d kissed him not to claim, but to meet him where he was.
Am I really falling for a Finnish guy named Jere, he wondered, because we slipped on ice and played board games and shoveled snow together?
The answer came without drama.
Yes.
Or… something very close to it.
And that was the problem.
Because there were no warning signs. No emotional freefall. No sense of losing control. Just a steady, growing certainty that this—this exact quiet—was something he didn’t want to lose.
Bojan closed his eyes, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
He was in trouble.
Not the explosive, headline-making kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that felt like home.
Bojan woke to the soft sounds of life continuing without him—the low hum of the stove, the clink of a spoon against a mug, the faint, off-key humming drifting in from the kitchen. Sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale stripes, gentle and unhurried.
He knew better.
He absolutely did.
Still, when he stepped into the living room and saw Jere at the stove—barefoot, half-dressed, hair still sleep-messy, moving around the kitchen like he belonged there—Bojan’s resolve lasted exactly two seconds.
Jere glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Morning.”
That was it.
That was the final blow.
Bojan crossed the room before his brain could stage an intervention. He reached out, and kissed him.
Once.
Twice.
Jere froze for half a heartbeat—then laughed softly into the kiss and turned, hands finding Bojan’s waist without hesitation. The kiss deepened, unhurried but intent, the kind that made Bojan forget why he’d ever been cautious in the first place.
They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads resting together, both a little breathless now.
“Well,” Jere murmured, clearly not displeased. “Good morning to you too.”
“I tried,” Bojan admitted, smiling helplessly. “I really did.”
Jere grinned, thumbs brushing warm circles at Bojan’s sides. “I’m not hearing a problem.”
Bojan laughed, pressing one more quick kiss to Jere’s lips before stepping back—just far enough to regain control. Mostly.
The pan hissed softly behind them, breakfast threatening to burn.
“Food,” Jere said reluctantly, pulling away. “Before this turns into a health hazard.”
Bojan nodded, still smiling. “Probably wise.”
They returned to their places like nothing had happened. Like everything had.
And Bojan thought—watching Jere move around the kitchen again, easy and real—that yes.
He was absolutely, undeniably in trouble.
And for once, he didn’t want saving from it.
❄️❄️❄️
There were only a few days left.
Bojan realized it slowly, the way you notice a bruise only after it stops hurting. It crept into small moments—counting coffee filters, mentally dividing groceries, Jere mentioning “before we head back” like it was nothing.
Like it wasn’t a deadline.
The cabin still felt the same. Warm. Lived-in. Their rhythm hadn’t broken. Jere cooked. Bojan dried the dishes. They went outside even when the cold bit harder now. They read. They kissed—sometimes laughing, sometimes quiet, always unforced.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because now there was an end date.
That night, Bojan lay awake again, staring at the familiar ceiling, but this time the calm came with an edge. Jere was asleep in the loft, breathing slow and steady, trusting without knowing he was doing it.
I have to tell him, Bojan thought.
Not tomorrow.
Not eventually.
Before.
He rolled onto his side, heart tightening.
In Slovenia, his life came with noise. Context. Headlines. Assumptions. People loved the idea of him long before they knew the person. Even the ones who meant well couldn’t help it.
Here, none of that existed.
Here, Jere knew him as the man who burned pasta, hated mornings, listened too carefully, and kissed like it was a decision—not an impulse.
If he told the truth, everything might change.
If he didn’t, it definitely would.
Is there even an “us” to protect? he wondered.
They hadn’t promised anything. Hadn’t defined it. This wasn’t a relationship with rules and plans. It was just… something good that had happened in the quiet.
And yet—thinking about leaving without explaining felt wrong. Like walking out of the cabin without turning off the lights.
Bojan pressed his lips together, exhaling slowly.
What if he looks at me differently?
What if this only works because I’m not… me?
The thought hurt more than he expected.
Outside, snow fell again, gentle and unbothered by human timing.
Bojan closed his eyes.
He didn’t know what would happen after the truth.
He didn’t know if there was a future past the wrong cabin.
But he knew one thing with absolute clarity.
Whatever this was, it deserved honesty.
And that meant he was running out of time.
❄️❄️❄️
The sauna was quiet in that particular, heavy way that came right before something happened.
Steam curled lazily around the wooden benches, heat settling deep into muscles already softened by days of winter and work and closeness. Jere sat opposite Bojan, skin flushed, hair damp, completely unguarded. Too unguarded.
Bojan tried—honestly—to focus on the warmth. On breathing. On the sound of water hissing against the stones.
It didn’t help.
Jere shifted, stretching his shoulders, eyes closed for a second too long. Sweat traced slow lines down his skin, unapologetic, real.
Bojan swallowed.
This was a mistake.
A beautiful, inevitable mistake.
He leaned forward before he could talk himself out of it and kissed Jere—slow this time, deliberate. Not playful. Not fixing whipped cream.
Jere inhaled sharply, then kissed him back with equal certainty, hands warm and steady, as if he’d been waiting for permission neither of them had wanted to ask for.
There was no rush after that.
No words.
Just understanding.
They left the sauna quietly, wrapped in towels and shared glances, the cabin dim and familiar as they crossed into the bedroom. The bed felt less like a boundary now and more like an invitation they both accepted without hesitation.
The door closed softly.
What followed didn’t need naming or detailing. It was gentle. Sure. Uncomplicated in the way only things built on trust can be. No drama. No proving. Just two people choosing each other in the simplest way possible.
Later, when the world had narrowed again to quiet breathing and shared warmth, Bojan lay awake for a moment, heart steady, mind clear.
This wasn’t chaos.
This wasn’t escape.
This was something real.
❄️❄️❄️
Afterwards they didn’t rush to get dressed.
They didn’t avoid each other’s eyes.
Eventually, they moved—slowly, naturally—pulling on clothes, brushing past one another in the narrow space like this was something they’d done before. Like nothing had broken.
In the kitchen, Jere filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The click of the switch sounded loud in the quiet. Bojan leaned against the counter, watching steam begin to rise, feeling oddly… calm.
No awkwardness.
No sudden self-consciousness.
Just a gentle afterglow that felt earned.
They sat at the table with their mugs, hands wrapped around warmth, the fire low but steady in the other room.
Jere was the one who spoke first.
“So,” he said, tone light but careful. “What happens now?”
Bojan looked down into his tea. This was it. The moment he’d been rehearsing and avoiding in equal measure.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
Jere didn’t tense. Didn’t joke. He just nodded. “Okay.”
Bojan took a breath. Then another.
“I’m… not just a social worker who plays music as a hobby,” he began.
Jere waited.
“I’m a musician. Professionally. And an actor.” He winced slightly. “A fairly well-known one. In Slovenia. And Serbia.”
Silence.
Bojan forced himself to look up.
Jere’s expression hadn’t changed much—surprise, yes, but not disbelief. Not distance.
“Like,” Jere said slowly, “famous famous?”
“Yes,” Bojan admitted. “Unfortunately.”
Jere blinked once. Then leaned back in his chair. “Huh.”
Bojan felt his chest tighten. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted this to be… real. And quiet. And not about that.”
Jere nodded again, thoughtful. “Okay.”
“You don’t have to—” Bojan started quickly. “I understand if this changes things. I just couldn’t leave without being honest.”
Jere was quiet for a moment, eyes on his tea.
Then he looked up and smiled—small, a little crooked.
“You know,” he said, “this explains so much.”
Bojan frowned. “It does?”
“Yeah,” Jere said. “The way you listen. The way you disappear sometimes. The way you needed the quiet.” He shrugged. “Also why your ‘hobby’ music opinions were suspiciously professional.”
Despite himself, Bojan laughed—soft and relieved.
Jere reached across the table, fingers brushing Bojan’s wrist. “You’re still you.”
Bojan swallowed. “You’re… okay with this?”
“I’m okay with you,” Jere said simply. “The rest is just context.”
The knot in Bojan’s chest finally loosened.
Outside, snow fell again, gentle and indifferent. Inside, the tea cooled between their hands, and the truth sat there with them—no longer a threat, just another thing they now shared.
Whatever came next wasn’t clear.
But it felt possible.
❄️❄️❄️
Morning came softly.
Bojan woke to pale winter light spilling across the room and the steady, familiar warmth beside him. For a moment he stayed still, listening—to the cabin settling, to the quiet outside, to the slow rhythm of Jere’s breathing.
Nothing felt broken.
Nothing felt strange.
Jere stirred, eyes opening lazily, and smiled when he noticed Bojan watching him. No surprise. No awkwardness. Just recognition.
“Morning,” Jere murmured.
“Morning,” Bojan replied, and the word felt earned.
They didn’t rush out of bed. There was no scramble to define anything, no need to pretend the night before hadn’t happened. When they finally did get up, it was unhurried—shared smiles, brushing past each other in the narrow space like it was already a habit.
Breakfast was simple. Eggs. Bread. Coffee strong enough to wake them up.
They ate at the table with the window fogged from warmth, snow bright beyond the glass. For a while they talked about nothing—how the coffee tasted better here, how the light made everything look softer. The ordinary things.
Then Jere set his mug down and leaned back, studying Bojan with that attentive calm that had become so familiar.
“So,” he said gently. “About… us.”
Bojan felt a flutter of nerves—and then, unexpectedly, relief. “Yeah.”
Jere didn’t rush him. He never did.
“I don’t want this to be one of those things,” Jere continued, choosing his words with care, “that was perfect because it was temporary.”
Bojan nodded slowly. “I don’t want that either.”
There it was. Said without drama. Without fear.
“I don’t know what it looks like yet,” Bojan added. “My life is… complicated. And far away.”
Jere smiled, small and steady. “Mine’s pretty normal. Also far away, in a different way.”
They shared a quiet laugh.
“But,” Jere said, reaching across the table, fingers brushing Bojan’s hand, “I don’t feel like this is the end of something.”
Bojan turned his hand, lacing their fingers together. “It feels like the beginning.”
Outside, snow continued to fall—soft, unbothered by decisions being made inside a warm cabin.
They didn’t make promises. They didn’t map out months or flights or expectations.
They just sat there, hands linked, coffee cooling between them, both certain of the same thing.
Whatever waited beyond the wrong cabin, they would step into it together.
The last day arrived without ceremony.
No announcement. No dramatic shift in the light. Just the quiet understanding that time had kept moving while they weren’t watching.
They took their time with breakfast, lingering over coffee like it might stretch the morning. Jere cooked anyway—out of habit now—and Bojan dried the dishes, bumping shoulders with him on purpose, smiling when Jere pretended not to notice.
Outside, the sky was clear, pale blue fading toward gold. They went for one last walk, following the same familiar path between the trees. Snow crunched underfoot. Their breaths rose together, matching without effort.
“Hard to believe this place was an accident,” Jere said.
Bojan hummed. “The best ones usually are.”
They didn’t talk much after that. They didn’t need to. Sometimes Jere reached out to steady Bojan on a slick patch of ice. Sometimes Bojan slowed so they’d stay side by side.
The world felt small and kind, as if it had agreed to leave them alone for just a little longer.
Back at the cabin, packing happened in stages—folding, pausing, refolding. Bojan caught himself staring at the empty spaces where their things had lived together. Jere leaned in the doorway, watching him with that quiet, knowing look.
“We’ll come back,” Jere said, not as a question.
Bojan met his eyes. “Yeah.”
Late afternoon turned the snow pink.
They sat on the steps with mugs of tea, shoulders touching, watching the light slip away. No speeches. No goodbyes rehearsed in advance.
Inside, the fire burned low one last time. They shared the couch, knees drawn up, a blanket thrown over them more out of habit than cold. When they kissed, it wasn’t urgent. It was familiar. A promise without pressure.
That night, the cabin felt fuller than it ever had—echoing with laughter, quiet conversations, the soft certainty that this wasn’t an ending.
When Bojan finally closed his eyes, he thought about how wrong everything had gone.
And how right it had become.
The wrong cabin had given them the right beginning.