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Winter settled deep into Briarwood, but the Victorian house on the ridge was the warmest place in the county.

The renovation was complete. The drafty windows were sealed. The floors were refinished with reclaimed oak from Gabriel’s shop.

Snow fell softly outside the bay window, blanketing the world in silence.

Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth.

Elara sat in the oversized armchair, her sketchbook on her lap. She was drawing the view from the window—the peace of the pines under the snow.

Gabriel walked in from the kitchen. He placed a mug of hot chocolate on the side table. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"It’s snowing hard," he murmured. "Roads will be closed."

"Good," Elara smiled, leaning back against him. "We don't need to go anywhere."

Gabriel walked to the corner of the room. He picked up a piece of sandpaper and went back to work on the project he had started last week. It was a crib, made of cherry wood, hand-carved with motifs of wolves and wildflowers.

He wasn't rushing. He worked with the slow, steady rhythm of a man who knew he had all the time in the world.

Elara watched him. The scar on his brow was fading. The tension in his shoulders—the soldier’s brace—was gone.

"Gabriel?"

He looked up, his amber eyes warm and full of light. "Yeah?"

"I'm not cold," she said softly.

Gabriel smiled. He put down the sandpaper and walked over to her. He scooped her up out of the chair, settling into it himself and pulling her onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"I know," he whispered, holding her tight against his heart. "Neither am I."

For the first time in a hundred years, the soldier closed his eyes and slept without dreaming of war.