First Snow

"Peter, it's snowing!" Marcy's voice carried through the cabin like a struck bell, too loud for the early hour, too bright for the dim winter light creeping through the windows. She was already halfway to the door, her bare feet slapping against the wooden floorboards with the restless energy of a child on Christmas morning.

Peter groaned into his pillow, one hand groping blindly for the pocket watch he kept on the bedside table. The thin metal was cool against his fingers. "It's barely dawn," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. Outside, the world was still painted in grays, the kind of light that made everything look unfinished.

She didn’t wait for permission. The front door creaked open, and a rush of cold air crawled into the room, sharp enough to make Peter sit up properly. He could see her from here—bare legs, the curve of her back, the dark line of her collar stark against her skin—as she stepped onto the porch. The snow was fresh, untouched, and she crouched to drag her fingers through it like she was testing the texture of something precious.

"You'll freeze," Peter called, but there was no real heat in it. He knew that tone wouldn’t work, not when she got like this. Marcy had the kind of enthusiasm that turned into a force of nature, something to be weathered rather than stopped.

Peter sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he swung his legs out of bed. The cold floor bit at his bare feet, but he ignored it, shuffling toward the wardrobe and slowly got dressed. By the time he made it to the living room, Marcy was already outside, her laughter ringing through the crisp morning air like wind chimes. He could see her through the window, kneeling in the snow, her bare skin flushed pink against the white—gloves and boots on, hat askew, but otherwise naked as the day she was born.

The sight should have been absurd, but Peter only felt a familiar warmth settle in his chest. He'd long since stopped trying to understand how she could stand the cold like that, how she could be so unselfconscious in her joy. Still, he couldn't let her stay out there forever. He grabbed his coat and pushed the door open wider, stepping out as he pulled it on. The chill biting deeper now, and cleared his throat. "Marcy," he said, voice low and firm. "Inside. Now."

She turned, snow clinging to her knees and thighs, her grin unrepentant. "But it's perfect," she protested, scooping up a handful of snow and letting it sift through her gloved fingers. "First snow of the year! You can't just—"

"Now," Peter repeated, and this time, there was no room for argument. Marcy's shoulders slumped, but she stood, brushing the snow from her legs with exaggerated care before trudging back toward the cabin. Peter held the door open for her, his expression unreadable as she passed, her breath still coming in little clouds of excitement.

Marcy stomped her boots just inside the doorway, sending clumps of snow scattering across the hardwood floor. Peter watched her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest as she peeled off her gloves finger by finger, her bottom lip jutting out in a theatrical pout. "You're tracking slush everywhere," he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

"I was barely out there," she grumbled, tossing the gloves onto the bench by the door with more force than necessary. The wool hat came next, tugged free in one sharp motion that sent her red hair sticking up in wild tufts. She looked like a disgruntled bird, feathers ruffled from the cold.

Peter reached out, smoothing a hand over her hair—partly to tame it, partly just to feel the warmth of her scalp beneath his palm. "Barely long enough to turn your ass blue," he said dryly. "Go on, boots off. Then kitchen."

Peter arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by her theatrics. "And you’re reckless with your health," he countered, stepping close enough to press a hand against her ribs. Her skin was still cool to the touch, faintly damp from melted snow. "You’re shaking," he murmured, softer now. Marcy rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, leaning into his warmth just enough for him to feel it—her silent admission.

The kitchen was warmer, the old iron stove radiating heat from where Peter had stoked it earlier. He guided her toward it with a hand at the small of her back, ignoring her half-hearted grumbling. "Chain’s on the counter," he said, nodding toward the coiled steel chain permanently locked at one end to a ring in the wall. Marcy wrinkled her nose but reached for it anyway, the cold, hard links familiar in her fingers. She held it out to him with exaggerated solemnity, like a knight surrendering a sword.

Peter padlocked the chain to her collar with practiced ease, the lock clicking shut with a sound that always made Marcy exhale—some tension leaving her shoulders, some restlessness settling. He gave the lead a gentle tug, not enough to pull, just enough to feel the weight of it. "Chores," he reminded her, and she stuck her tongue out at him but turned toward the pantry without further complaint.

Lucky, their fat orange tabby, wound between her legs the moment she moved, purring loud enough to rattle. Marcy crouched to scratch behind his ears, her irritation melting into a smile. "Someone’s hungry," she cooed, letting the cat butt his head against her chin. Peter watched from the doorway, arms crossed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. It was impossible to stay stern when she got like this—all softness and affection, the wild energy from outside gentled into something domestic.

Marcy scooped Lucky into her arms, his weight warm against her bare chest, his purr vibrating through her ribs like a second heartbeat. She pressed her nose into his fur, inhaling the scent of sunshine and dust, before setting him down gently beside his food bowl. "Demanding little tyrant," she murmured, but her fingers lingered on his back as she straightened, the chain swaying lightly between her collarbones.

Peter watched her move around the kitchen—the way she stretched to reach the flour on the top shelf, the muscles in her back shifting beneath freckled skin, the occasional shiver when a draft found her. She didn’t seem to notice the cold anymore, not when she was busy, not when she had a task to focus on. He leaned against the doorframe, content to let the silence stretch between them, the only sounds the scrape of Marcy’s wooden spoon against the mixing bowl and Lucky’s enthusiastic chewing.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, silent and steady. It piled along the windowsills, muffling the world beyond the cabin until it felt like they were the only two people left in it. Peter rubbed his beard absently, considering the way Marcy’s hips swayed as she kneaded dough—the rhythm of it, the unthinking grace. She caught him staring and grinned, flour dusting her cheekbone like a misplaced beauty mark. "What?" She teased, pausing to wipe her hands on her thighs.

"Nothing," Peter said, but his voice was warmer than he intended. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, stopping just close enough to brush the flour from her face with his thumb. Marcy leaned into the touch, her eyes half-lidded, her breath slow. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Lucky meowed, loud and indignant, and the spell broke. Marcy laughed, turning back to her work, and Peter retreated to the hearth to poke at the fire.