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The storm outside reminds you of the night you met Zayne so many years ago. It rages wildly, wind cutting through the air like a whip. You can almost feel the cold. Almost.
With a shiver, you press yourself even closer into Zayne’s side, burrowing your head into his shoulder while he reads quietly to you.
“Do you remember the night we met?” You suddenly ask, interrupting his reading flow. He looks at you, mouth pulled into a soft and vulnerable smile before he nods.
“Of course I do, how could I forget?”
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Luck has never once been on your side. Freak accidents, terrible scams, fake friends and tests you failed just a point short of passing have followed you like begrudging ghosts for most of your life. Ever since you were a child, everyone had joked your Evol must be bad luck, and though you could somewhat see humour in it now as an adult, the words had struck you terribly as a child. So much in fact, it kind of stuck with you. Still, when you grew up and began to live your adult life, you tried to do your best to not let your streak of bad luck get to you. There wasn’t much of a choice for you there anyway—either you learnt to live with it, or you wallowed in self pity and spiralled into the depths of an abyss you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself out from.
Naturally, the choice was more than obvious.
Yet here you stand, at the reception of some hotel so far away from the rest of civilization you might actually end up in a parallel universe, snowed in and stuck. And a day before Christmas too—merely hours before your flight to Linkon is supposed to leave.
Truly, the universe has it out for you with both terrible timing and creative new trails.
“God, I am not your strongest soldier,” you mumble underneath your breath while you walk in circles trying to get better reception—a task proving to be impossible. You were sent up to the snowy mountains of the Arctic for research purposes. You’d planned to depart the day before Christmas so you could make it home in time to celebrate with your family, but fate clearly had other plans for you. As luck would have it, a sudden snowstorm swept over the area you were staying in, causing several avalanches and emergencies. Of course, your hotel hadn’t been spared. Located somewhere at the top of a hill, the entire area suffered from an avalanche that kept you snowed in—effectively locked in the hotel until the storm passed and rescue operations managed to get you out.
The best thing—because things weren’t bad as is, obviously—was the power cutting off.
So here you are, stuck in a hotel somewhere away from your family and civilization with no power, no reception and only 20% left of your battery. Your power bank had given up on you earlier that morning and you’d neglected resharing it, blind with optimism and the hope that you wouldn’t need it.
Yeah, that went stellar for you, didn’t it?
A wave of exhaustion overtakes your body, causing you to slump into one of the many arm chairs littering the reception lounge. The few hotel staff on duty had immediately lit the many fireplaces in order to keep the interior inside while also working on reinforcing the windows so that the snow and cold would stay outside.
You stare at the fire, lost in thought and enamoured by the flickering and dancing of flames. Somehow, it reminds you of your parents’ living room that is no doubt decked out in beautiful decoration.
God, you can’t even reach out to them and tell them you won’t be able to attend. You think they may know though, as better as the notion may be. You haven’t been able to attend Christmas with your family for the past four years. Somehow, some sort of event always occurred at the very last minute and prevented you from going home—whether it be illness, an accident or some sort of emergency that made it impossible to leave.
The thought of your mother setting your plate and leaving an empty space on the table you know you won't be able to fill brings tears to your eyes, and before you know it, the dam breaks. Big, fat droplets roll down your cheeks in rapid succession, and before you know it ugly sobs shake your entire body. You try to press your palms to your eyes, willing yourself and your tears to stop, but to no avail.
It’s so unfair that somehow, you always end up in these situations. Curse that rotten luck of yours that has never once brought you something.
The only small mercy you can be grateful for is the lack of other patrons tonight—most, if not all other guests have already left earlier this morning. Only you stayed until late, wrapping up loose ends at the research centre with the futile hope of being able to enjoy your vacation without worrying about work.
How naive.
At least you don’t have to deal with a stranger witnessing your embarrassing breakdown, you suppose. Or at least, that’s what you think until you hear the quiet scratch of the armchair next to yours being moved.
Immediately, you look to the side, vision hazy through the veil of tears blurring your vision. After you blink a few times, you can make out a shockingly handsome man in the seat. You’re so flabbergasted by his sudden pear ace, you barely flinch when he turns his head to look at you.
Hazel eyes hidden behind wire frames, pale skin flushed from the cold—or the heat, you don't know—and dark hair that looks unfairly soft in the way it curls over his forehead. The man is drop dead gorgeous, something straight of dreams or movies, you think to yourself. The golden glow of the fire softens his silhouette to the point he looks ethereally unreal. You half believe him to be a figment of your imagination. Dazed and confused, you keep staring at him until he nudges your shoulder to startle you out of your reveries. Confused, you blink a few times until you realize he’s been talking to you this entire time—and you haven’t heard a single thing.
“You've got something on your face,” the words register in your mind—spoken in a smooth cadence that nearly kills you to sleep right there and then. When you touch your face to check what he means, you're horrified to realize that you do indeed have something on your face—snot.
Immediately, the blood rushes to your face without missing a beat. Truly, Lady Luck must absolutely hate you to have you sit across the most gorgeous man you've ever seen while your face is covered in snot.
You try to hide behind your hands and look around for something to clean the snot with, but alas there's nothing you can use. The mysterious man seems to pick up on your struggle and graciously offers you a soft handkerchief he pulls from the inside of his jacket.
“There,” he offers kindly and you gladly take it from his hand. Your fingers brush, just for a moment, yet the contact feels strangely electric all the same.
You manage to clean your face and wipe your tears with the handkerchief, only to stop before you hand it back to him. You can't exactly give a stranger a dirty handkerchief, can you? But wouldn't it be weird to keep it? It doesn't belong to you after all.
As if sensing the internal debate you've got going on, the man regards you with mild amusement and nods his head. “Feel free to keep it.”
“Oh, thank you,” the reply comes out more like a question than an actual thanks, much to your dismay. Still, if the stranger notices then he either isn't bothered enough to comment or he's kind enough to ignore it. Something makes you suspect it might actually be the latter.
He turns his gaze back to the fire, watching it with a mixture of curiosity and wonder—you suppose similar to how you looked at it before you started crying. Silence stretches between you, punctuated heavily by the circumstances you keep thinking back too. You hadn't seen him before, but he must be a fellow guest who's had the misfortune of being stuck here as well.
A part of you wants to make conversation and get to know him—there really isn't much else to do with a nearly dead phone, no power, no reception and no heating—but the other more rational part of you wishes to remain quiet for your own good. If your track record is anything to go by, you're more likely to embarrass yourself in front of him instead of actually getting to know him.
Maybe there's something in the air, or the handkerchief he gave you or perhaps your fried nerves have opened up a level beyond rock bottom—whatever it is, it truly is beyond your comprehension and leads you to actually talk to him.
“Soooo, is it your first time getting snowed-in in the middle of nowhere or do you do that often?”
Real fucking smooth, great going there Tiger. You regret the words almost as soon as they leave your mouth because Gorgeous Stranger—seriously, what is his name you can't keep calling him that—turns to look at you with a half raised eyebrow and the kind of look that screams ‘I’m low-key judging you right now’.
“Was that an attempt at breaking the ice—pun somewhat intended?” He asks, the ghost of a smile melting with the shadows the fire throws across his face.
The embarrassment is too much to bear, so you cross your arms and pout like the world's most offended snowman. “I'd like to see you try them, Mister Has-A-Doctorate-In-Social-Skills.”
Pretty Faced Man snorts, an honest to God sound from the back of his throat that makes you follow suit despite the ridiculousness of the whole situation.
He leans back into the armchair, staring at you like he hasn't quite figured out what to make of you—but with the sort of determination that promises he will find out.
“Surprisingly, it's not my first time,” he answers the question, “I've gotten snowed-in a few times over the years, the first being when I was 12 during one of the harshest winters of
You immediately light up at the mention of your home city. “Wait, are you also from Linkon?”
“Yes I am, are you? Your accent would suggest somewhere warmer in the South, like Verona for example.”
Alright, the Mysterious Man was funny, handsome and observant it seemed. With each passing moment with him, you doubted the reality of this situation. Perhaps you've begun to hallucinate from sheer stress? God, you should've listened to your therapist when she told you not to overthink so much and try to manage your stress reactions better.
“My late father was from Verona and my mum is from Linkon, so I've grown up to just move between the two,” you supply a little stupified by his intense gaze. Maybe he's a Fae, you decide privately. Normal humans don't make you just go around spilling your life stories to them five minutes into the first meeting, right? Or maybe you truly are so far gone, you've forgotten all about social etiquette and decided to free ball this encounter.
The man hums thoughtfully, much like someone would when they hear information they didn't expect to receive but filed away in any case. “I’m Zayne, by the way.”
Hah, you didn't even have to awkwardly ask for his name! Maybe you aren't a lost cause after all.
You give him your name in exchange, and somehow that is what sparks the spirit of conversation between you. He asks you about your stay here and you explain to him that it's a work trip for the International Research Association. As it turns out, Zayne happens to be a doctor—a chief surgeon at that when he doesn't seem much older than you—who’s also in the Arctic for work.
You talked about the weather, work related things and exchanged terrible puns by the fire. You asked him if he's ever watched Frozen when he mentioned his Evol offhandedly, he looked at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline.
Maybe it's the forced proximity.
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.
Or maybe, it's just two strangers colliding in one perfectly imperfect moment.
Talking with Zayne made you forget your sorrows and woes. He stayed up with you all night, chatting away about your childhood in both Verona and Linkon—the difference between culture, the holidays and memories of your late father you hadn't unearthed in a while. In turn he told you about his experience growing up with parents who took him around the world before he was old enough to ride a roller coaster on his own, about his dream to become a cardiac surgeon and save as many people as possible.
Somehow, the hours slip and before you know it you get up to relight the fireplace for the third time this night. It manages to break the spell, grounding you back into the reality you oh so desperately wished to abandon.
You're half reaching to your phone before you remember that it died two hours into your conversation with Zayne, leaving you unable to check the time.
It must be somewhere around five in the morning you reckon, if your feeling of time is to be trusted. In a few hours, just a little after noon, your family would slowly rise and begin to eat together. None of you were big on Christmas, but a gathering had always been a must—an excuse to spend time together, your mother always said.
They'd sit at the large mahogany table in the dining room and chat over warm food and the feeling of home, all while you were stuck here for God knows how long. Your place at the table would remain empty—for the fifth year in a row.
Zayne seems to notice the shift in your mood, especially when you slump back into your seat with a dampened spirit. Curiously, he eyes you attentively—like a detective searching for hints. “Is something the matter? You were so lively just moments ago.”
You consider dishing out a halfassed lie because you just know you'll tear up again if you talk about. Crying twice in front of the same guy in less than ten hours is not a low you're willing to reach tonight.
Still, there's something about him that has you talking before you can think twice about it.
“It’s stupid actually,” your attempt at skirting around the topic fails spectacularly when he motions for you to talk regardless. “My family is gathered in my childhood home in Linkon to celebrate the holidays together and this is the fifth year in a row I won't be able to attend because the universe has decided it hates to see me happy.”
The words linger between you, sparking immediate regret on your end. Why on earth did you just say that? God you should've just shut up and made up some lie about work trouble. Surely that is too much for the first meeting—even if you've exchanged far deeper information in the short time you've met, but you're willing to disregard that for the sake of dramatics.
Zayne is silent, his eyes glancing at the wrist watch you hadn't noticed until now before he returns his gaze to you with an expression you can't read. “When does your family normally celebrate?”
The question stumps you, but you answer it regardless. “At like two in the evening, they usually stay up watching movies the night before and wake up super late.”
He hums thoughtfully before he abruptly stands up and extends his arm out to you.
“If we make it to the airport in the next four hours you should be able to make it on time for the celebrations.”
You stare at him, utterly stunned and quite frankly a little concerned because he's shouting utter nonsense right now—and with such confidence, you almost believe you can actually make it.
“Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.”
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Somehow, thanks to a Christmas miracle named Zayne and his connections you actually managed to get a helicopter to lift you out of the area and give you a ride to the airport. You made it just an hour before the plane departed, and by the time you landed in Linkon you swore your day wouldn't get any weirder.
It did.
It turned out that Zayne lived two streets away—has in fact lived there his whole life and highly likely went to the school right across from yours. How you've gone for so long without ever running him is a true mystery, but not one you'd try to dig into anytime soon.
When you rang the bell at two p.m sharp and your mother opened the door, her entire face lit up with the intensity of a million stars.
You went to visit Zayne a week later to thank him—and maybe because you couldn't really stop thinking about him after that fateful encounter.
One coffee hangout turned into two and before you knew it the months slipped by and the two of you found each other head over heels for one another.
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Lady Luck may have never really liked you much, but you swear she must've been in an especially good mood when she put Zayne in your life.
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(A year after the night you met, you learnt that Zayne had deliberately approached you in the hotel lounge because you looked seconds away from a breakdown and his doctor instincts immediately kicked in. Kudos to your h
usband for passing ER patient handling 101 with flying colours, you guess.)