JAKE

They call it the bunny hill.

Which is ironic, considering I’ve never felt more like a helpless.I was all limbs and fear and a deep, unshakable certainty that I would soon be airborne and not in the majestic Olympic way.

Lily stood beside me, radiating calm like she belonged here. Which, of course, she did. She looked at home in the snow, the sky, the breeze. Like someone who was part of the mountain, not just passing through.

I, on the other hand, looked like an off-brand action figure in a rental helmet.

“Okay, Jake.” Her voice was bright, patient. “We’re going to take it slow. I’m going to walk you through a glide and we’ll practice stopping.”

“Stopping” I repeated. “Yes. Vital skill.”

She grinned, holding out her poles like a flight attendant about to demonstrate an emergency landing. “Think of it like a pizza. You angle your skis inward like this ” She moved her feet into a perfect wedge. “and the friction helps you stop.”

I stared. “Pizza?”

“Yup. You’ll never look at pepperoni the same way again.”

“I didn’t look at it that deeply to begin with.”

“Then you’re doing skiing wrong.”

She stepped back, watching me expectantly.

I attempted the wedge. Sort of. My skis wobbled and one shot forward like a rogue missile and suddenly I was sliding just a few feet but enough to send my heart into full panic mode.

“Whoa”

Lily was already beside me, grabbing my arms to steady me. “There you go! That’s okay. Try again.”

I looked down. She hadn’t let go.

She noticed, and quickly released me. “Sorry. Reflex.”

“Not complaining.”

She flushed. I swore I saw her eyes flicker toward my face for half a second before she turned away.

“Let’s try that again, Mr. Ryan. Slower this time. Glide. Then pizza.”

I took a breath, pushed gently forward and actually managed to glide a few feet before stopping in a semi-controlled wedge. I looked at her like I’d just solved cold fusion.

“Was that... did I just...?”

“You stopped!” she laughed. “You pizza’d!”

“I pizza’d” I repeated, proud in the dumbest way.

“Let’s build a statue in your honor” she teased. “Savior of bunny slopes. Lord of mozzarella.”

I couldn’t help it,I laughed. A real, full laugh that cracked through the weird layer of tension I’d been wearing for months.

God, it felt good.

We kept at it, again and again. She adjusted my stance, told me when to lean forward, when to keep my knees soft. I slipped. A lot. Once, I fell sideways into the snow like a sandbag and just lay there, blinking up at the sky.

“You alive?” she asked, peering over me.

“No” I groaned. “Tell my shareholders I died bravely.”

“You don’t have shareholders, Jake.”

“Don’t I?”

She extended a mittened hand, and I took it, letting her help me up. Our gloves pressed together, warm and soft, and for a second I didn’t want to let go.

She didn’t seem to, either.

Then she cleared her throat and stepped back. “Okay. Let’s try linking a few glides.”

“I just stood upright for more than ten seconds. Isn’t that enough progress for today?”

“Nope. This is where the real fun begins.”

“Lily, I say this with total respect,you are a tyrant in a puffer jacket.”

She cackled.

I obeyed.

We practiced for another hour. Somehow, between the falling and the laughing and the occasional moments of shared breath, the fear started to fade. Not just the skiing part. The being-here part. The being-me part.

By the end of it, I could make it ten yards down the slope without falling.

We finally came to a stop near the bottom of the hill. Lily brushed a snowflake from her cheek and looked at me, smiling.

“You did good.”

“You’re just saying that because I didn’t take out a small child this time.”

“Well” she said thoughtfully, “you came close to hitting that snowman, but I don’t think he’s pressing charges.”

I chuckled, breath clouding in the cold. “You’re good at this.”

“Teaching?”

“Yeah. You make it... easy to try.”

She glanced at me, then down at her boots. “Thanks. That’s nice to hear.”

There was something soft in her expression now. Not flirtation exactly. Something quieter. Warmer.

I had the sudden, overwhelming urge to tell her the truth.

That I wasn’t just Jake Ryan, the guy from the ski lodge with two left skis and a borrowed identity.

I was Jackson Ryland.

The face on too many magazine covers. The CEO hiding from the fallout of a very public scandal. The billionaire who hadn’t been called by his real name in days.

But Lily didn’t know any of that.

To her, I was just... me.

And for once, that felt like enough.

“Hot chocolate?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

I blinked. “What?”

“There’s a stand right outside the lodge. Best cocoa on the mountain. Come on. It’s basically a tradition after your first real run.”

I followed her back up the slope, my legs sore and heart buzzing, thinking.

I didn’t come here to fall in love.

But I was already slipping.

The cocoa stand was just as she promised tiny, rustic, and magical. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, and the air smelled like sugar and cinnamon. We stood in line, helmets off, steam rising from the cups of the people ahead of us.

I glanced at her while she wasn’t looking.

Lily Carter.

Snow instructor. Small-town sunshine. Possibly made of stardust and pine.

“What?” she asked, catching me.

“Nothing.”

She gave me a look.

“Okay” I admitted. “I was just wondering what your hot cocoa topping says about you.”

“Ah.” She smirked. “A cocoa psychoanalyst.”

“Exactly. Marshmallows mean you’re whimsical. Whipped cream means you’re traditional. Sprinkles mean you’re hiding a chaotic soul.”

She laughed. “And what does double chocolate syrup say?”

“That you’re dangerous and I should run.”

“Too late” She grinned. “You already signed up for three more lessons.”

“Did I?”

“Mm-hmm. And I take my students very seriously, Mr. Ryan.”

“Good” I said, meeting her gaze. “Because I’m already looking forward to tomorrow.”

She blinked, surprised.

But then she smiled.

Me too, it seemed to say.

And just like that, it wasn’t just the cocoa that made my chest feel warm.

It was her.

It was this place.

It was the quiet, simple joy of a moment that didn’t demand anything from me except to be there.

With her.

And for the first time in a very long time, that felt like everything I needed.

Lily

I always loved the quiet just before the afternoon lessons. The air crisp and clean, kids tumbling around on their tiny skis and the hum of the lift in the background like a lullaby of winter. The snow today was soft and powdery.

I was sipping the last of my peppermint tea from a dented thermos when I saw him.

Jake.

Punctual this time, which was a small miracle in itself. He looked well, better geared, for starters. His jacket was sleek black, fitted, and clearly new. Not in a flashy way, but in the “I-don’t-shop-sales-rack” kind of way. His boots actually matched and his helmet didn’t look like it had survived three wars.

Still, he carried himself like a man preparing to face his doom.

“Hey, disaster” I called out with a grin, sliding my goggles up.

He gave me a sheepish smile as he trudged over, skis balanced awkwardly on his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’m now a seasoned skier. I watched three YouTube videos last night.”

“Did they cover falling with flair? Because that’s your specialty.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m practically an Olympic-level tumbler.”

He was joking, relaxed. His shoulders less tense than they were last time. Something about it made me feel lighter too.

We clicked into our skis and shuffled toward the bunny slope. The late-day sun cast long shadows across the snow, turning everything soft and golden. A few locals waved at me as we passed. One of the kids I taught on weekends shouted “Hi Miss Lily!” from the lift.

Jake glanced sideways at me. “Celebrity status, huh?”

I shrugged. “Small town. People wave.”

“I think someone just handed you a muffin from their pocket.”

“That happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed and it caught me off guard. There was something magnetic about Jake’s laugh, like it came from deep inside him and didn’t get out very often.

“All right” I said, stopping near the top of the bunny hill. “Let’s see what those YouTube videos taught you.”

Jake inhaled like he was about to jump out of a plane. “If I break anything, you’re driving me to the hospital.”

“I’ll sled you down personally” I promised.

He pushed off cautiously and to my surprise, he didn’t immediately fall.

Sure, his arms flailed a little, and his knees wobbled like spaghetti, but he managed to make it about twenty feet without eating snow. I let out a celebratory cheer.

Jake reached the bottom, slightly out of breath but grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off a magic trick. “Did you see that?”

“I’m not sure whether to clap or call the Guinness World Records” I teased, skiing up beside him. “That was actually decent.”

He raised his hands in victory. “Decent! You hear that, Aspenridge? Your girl just called me decent!”

A few people turned at the noise, and I blushed, laughing as I shoved his arm gently. “Come on, hotshot. Let’s go again.”

We spent the next hour running drills slow descents, pizza stops, the occasional dramatic fall. He got better. Smoother. And even when he messed up, he didn’t get frustrated the way most beginners did. He laughed at himself, shook it off, tried again.

And I couldn’t help but notice how he listened to my instructions. Took them to heart. Looked at me when I spoke like my words mattered.

Most tourists treated the bunny hill like a temporary annoyance on their way to bigger slopes. Jake treated it like a destination.

After our fifth run, I called for a break. We unclipped from our skis and collapsed onto the wooden bench near the edge of the slope, under a pair of pine trees dusted in white. He was flushed, sweaty, and panting.

“You’re not bad” I said, tossing him a half-squished granola bar from my pocket.

He looked at it like it was a precious artifact. “This is gourmet compared to my last protein bar. That one exploded.”

“I don’t want to know.”

He peeled it open, took a bite, and groaned. “Oh my god. Actual food. You’re an angel.”

I leaned back on the bench, letting the cold wood press through my jacket, and watched the slope for a moment. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the sky in soft pastels. There was something peaceful about it all. Just us, and the snow, and the world quietly spinning on.

Then, without planning it, I asked, “So… what brought you here?”

Jake froze mid-bite.

“To Aspenridge, I mean,” I clarified, trying to keep my voice light. “We don’t exactly get a ton of guys like you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guys like me?”

“You know. Mysterious loners with nice gear and zero skiing ability.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a crumb off his gloves. “Fair enough.”

I waited, not pushing, just sipping the silence.

Finally, he said “I guess I needed to… disappear for a while.”

I tilted my head, curious.

“Not in a dramatic way” he added quickly. “Just… my life got loud. Complicated. I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could breathe and not be expected to perform.”

“Perform?”

He shrugged, eyes on the slope now. “Be who people think I am.”

I studied him, the set of his jaw, the way his fingers fiddled with his gloves like he was keeping something in. A secret. A wound. Maybe both.

“Well” I said gently, “you picked a good town for disappearing. We don’t ask a lot of questions here.”

Jake looked at me and something passed between us,quiet and fragile.

“What about you?” he asked. “Why stay?”

That question. People always asked it like it was strange, like staying meant something was missing. But I smiled.

“Because I like it here” I said simply. “I like the way the snow smells in the morning. The way people leave casseroles on your porch when you’re sick. I like teaching kids how to ski and falling asleep knowing I did something real that day.”

He watched me like I was saying something he hadn’t heard before.

“That sounds… nice” he murmured.

“It is.”

We sat like that for a moment, wrapped in the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The slope buzzed with laughter and shouts and skis carving turns in the snow. But here, under the pine trees, it felt like our own little bubble.

Eventually, I stood, brushing the snow off my pants. “Lesson’s not over, mystery man.”

Jake groaned theatrically but stood too. “Do I at least get a sticker or something?”

I grinned. “If you don’t fall on this next run, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

“High stakes.”

We clipped into our skis again and slid toward the slope, side by side. His elbow bumped mine, and he didn’t move away. I didn’t either.

As he started down the hill, a little wobbly but determined, I let myself watch him and realized I liked teaching him. Not just because he listened, or because he was funny and weird and surprisingly unpretentious, but because something about him made me feel seen.

Jake wasn’t like the tourists who came and went with their designer jackets and ego bruises. He was different.

And that made me nervous.

Because people like him? They didn’t usually stay.

But for now, I followed him down the slope, laughing when he stumbled, cheering when he stayed upright.

JAKE

The world felt quieter here.

Maybe it was the snow, falling in a slow, endless hush as if someone had pressed mute on everything else. Or maybe it was the way Lily walked beside me, her laugh still clinging to the air like the tail end of music. Whatever it was, I wished I could trap it, keep it and live inside it forever.

We had just finished another lesson calling it a lesson was generous. She taught, I stumbled, we laughed, and somehow I learned more than I expected. Now, trudging side by side toward the lodge, skis balanced over our shoulders, I felt like I belonged here. And that was dangerous.

Because I didn’t.

“Hey, disaster” Lily said, grinning as she reached over and shoved something into my chest. My gloves. I hadn’t even realized I’d left them on the bench.

“You’re my hero” I said, stuffing them into my jacket pocket. “Imagine the headlines if I’d frozen to death twenty feet from the lodge.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’d have been fine. Worst case, I would’ve sledded you down on your skis.”

“Romantic.”

“Practical” she corrected, though the corners of her mouth curved up.

We reached the path leading toward the lodge, the windows glowing orange against the purple-blue evening sky. A few people shuffled past us, the scent of hot chocolate and wood smoke wafting out every time the doors opened. Aspenridge in winter was the kind of postcard life most people dreamed of.

Most people.

Not me.

I slowed my steps, letting the crunch of snow under my boots fill the silence. The truth was swelling inside me, pressing against my ribs. I’d been ignoring it for days, pretending this was just a break, just a temporary pause in the chaos of my real world. But tonight, watching Lily tuck her hair into her knit hat and smile at something as small as a kid throwing snowballs by the entrance, I knew I couldn’t pretend forever.

“Lily” I said quietly.

She turned, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Yeah?”

I exhaled a cloud of breath that vanished instantly into the dark. Words weren’t my strong suit but she deserved something. Some sort of warning.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”

Her smile faltered, just a little, but she didn’t look away. “Oh?”

I nodded, gripping my skis tighter. “This… isn’t really my world. Aspenridge. Ski lessons. Quiet days. I came here because I needed to get away for a while.”

Her gaze searched mine, like she was trying to read what I wasn’t saying. “Get away from what?”

I hesitated. The honest answer sat heavy on my tongue: the endless meetings, the constant headlines, the billion-dollar empire I never asked for but couldn’t escape. But I swallowed it down. If I told her, everything between us would change.

“From the noise” I said instead. “From expectations. Back home, there are a lot of people who think they know me. Who need me to be a certain version of myself. It gets… exhausting.”

Lily was quiet for a beat. The snow kept falling, steady, patient. Finally, she asked , “Do you want to go back?”

Her voice was soft, but the question hit harder than anything else she could have said.

Did I?

I thought about my phone, probably buzzing in my room right now with missed calls and urgent texts. I thought about my assistant, who had begged me to cut this trip short. I thought about shareholders, board members, press. The constant performance of being him.

Then I thought about today. About the way Lily had cheered when I made it down the hill without falling. About the way she’d laughed, bright and unrestrained, when I’d compared my skiing to a wounded penguin. About the granola bar she’d shared with me like it was some priceless delicacy.

Did I want to go back? No.

But did I have a choice? That was the real question.

“I don’t know” I said finally. My voice was low, almost lost to the wind. “Not really. But it’s not that simple.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. She didn’t press, though. She didn’t ask for details, didn’t push me to explain. Most people would have. Most people always did. But Lily just accepted it.

That nearly undid me.

We reached the steps of the lodge. The lanterns above the door threw soft circles of light onto the snow, catching in Lily’s hair. A few flakes had landed there, sparkling like they belonged. Without thinking, I reached out and brushed them away. My fingers lingered just a fraction too long.

Her breath caught.

“You make this place harder to leave” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Her eyes widened, just slightly, but she didn’t look away. She smiled. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The snow kept falling, the world around us carrying on as if nothing monumental had just passed between two people on the lodge steps. But to me, it felt like everything had shifted.

She pulled her hat down tighter over her ears and gave me that teasing smile again, though softer this time. “Goodnight, Jake. Try not to fall out of bed.”

I managed a laugh, though my chest ached. “Goodnight, Lily.”

She turned and walked into the lodge, disappearing into the golden glow. I stood there for a long time, skis heavy on my shoulder, hands cold even in my gloves.

I’d come here to disappear. To escape the world that demanded too much of me. But with her, I felt more seen than I had in years. More of myself.

A clear sign of how painful it will be to leave her.