The mornings in Switzerland had started to feel almost magical. Snow blanketed the streets, and the quiet hum of the town wrapped the world in a soft glow.
Mr. Hubby adjusted his scarf as he walked beside Mr. Wifey, who clutched a small notebook filled with medical observations.
Even on vacation, she insisted on studying every morning, practicing patient assessments, reading about injuries, and reviewing treatments. She liked to believe she was preparing herself for the life she dreamed of as a doctor.
He noticed her scribbling silently as they walked toward the local clinic where a volunteer event was taking place.
"Always working, huh, Mr. Wifey?" he teased, nudging her shoulder.
"Someone has to save lives, Mr. Hubby," she replied with a smirk. "And someone has to make sure you don't get frostbite while doing it."
He laughed, the sound low and warm. "I think I can handle myself. But if you insist on being my personal nurse, I won't complain."
Inside the small clinic, Mr. Wifey jumped into action, checking patients, offering advice, and gently showing a young girl how to clean a minor scrape. Mr. Hubby followed closely, mostly observing but stepping in whenever her hands were full.
"You're really good at this," he murmured, watching as she carefully bandaged a small boy's knee.
"I told you," she said lightly. "I'm a doctor in training. I can't not help."
He chuckled, but there was something new in his eyes, something protective, something tender.
After the event, they walked home through the falling snow, their fingers brushing now and then. The cold made her shiver, and without hesitation, he draped his coat over her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said softly.
"You don't need to thank me for something so obvious," he replied. This time, instead of pulling away, his hand lingered near hers.
She glanced at him, cheeks warming from the simple contact. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them, a promise of closeness, a quiet pull neither fully understood yet.
That night, back at the apartment, they sat on the balcony wrapped in blankets, watching the snow-covered streets below.
"You know," she said, trying to sound casual, "we've known each other for a few days, and yet it feels strange not being closer than this."
He turned toward her, his expression soft but intense. "I know."
Without thinking, he leaned closer. She froze for a moment, then leaned back teasingly, though her heart was pounding. Slowly, they closed the distance, and their lips met, not rushed but gentle and tentative, like the first step into something unknown.
Pulling back slightly, he whispered, "Are you okay?"
"I… yes," she breathed, smiling shakily. "That was nice."
He grinned. "Nice? I was aiming for unforgettable."
She laughed, lightly hitting his arm, but their fingers remained intertwined.
Later that night, lying in her bed, she stared at the ceiling, thoughts drifting back to the balcony.
Why does he make my heart race like this?
In the other room, he lay awake, hand still tingling where hers had been.
I don't know how, he thought, but I can't let her go.
Outside, the snow continued to fall quietly, but inside, a storm of feelings had already begun.