The mornings in Switzerland were crisp, bright, and filled with a quiet excitement neither of them could name. Snow glimmered along rooftops, and the faint smell of chocolate and fresh bread drifted from every corner café.
Mr. Hubby and Mr. Wifey sat at a tiny table near the window, sharing croissants and laughing over who had eaten the last piece of chocolate yesterday.
"You always make it sound like a crime," he teased, stealing a bite from her plate.
"I'm innocent," she shot back, smirking. "Chocolate disappears all on its own."
Their laughter carried across the small café, unnoticed by the few locals. It was the sound of two people who had found a strange comfort in each other, even in the chaos of an unknown city.
After breakfast, she grabbed her small notebook and pen. "I thought I'd walk through the volunteer clinic again today," she said. "Practice makes perfect, right?"
"Practice on me first," he said, pointing at his scraped hand from yesterday's skiing disaster. "Your patients are lucky to have you."
At the clinic, she moved with quiet confidence, checking bandages, demonstrating techniques, and offering advice to the volunteers. He watched from the side, sometimes lending a hand but mostly just enjoying the way her eyes sparkled when she explained a procedure.
A little boy cried as he struggled to put on his gloves. She knelt beside him, brushing snow from his cheeks. "It's okay," she murmured. "We'll figure it out together."
He chuckled softly. "You're always helping everyone. Even kids who can barely say thank you."
She glanced at him, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. "Someone has to keep you in line, Mr. Hubby."
He reached for her hand instinctively. She didn't pull away. It was becoming easier. Too easy.
Later, as snow fell heavier, they wandered through a quiet park, building snowmen, teasing each other, and occasionally bumping into each other accidentally, each touch leaving a small spark behind.
"You're ridiculous," she said, laughing after he toppled her tiny snowman.
"And you love it," he replied, brushing snow from her coat.
They found a bench overlooking the lake, the water a glassy mirror of the mountains beyond. He offered his coat to her again, and she accepted without a word. Their shoulders brushed as they sat down, and for a moment, the cold didn't matter.
"You know," she said softly, "we don't even know each other's real names."
He grinned. "Does it really matter?"
"Apparently not," she replied, leaning slightly closer.
The moment stretched, filled with laughter, playful nudges, and an unspoken promise of something neither dared to name. Snowflakes settled on their hair and coats, unnoticed, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
By the time they walked back to the apartment, their hands were brushing more often, lingering a little longer. She smiled to herself, thinking about the warmth in his presence, while he walked silently beside her, mind replaying every small touch, every laugh, every shared glance.
The snow fell quietly outside, but inside, a storm of emotions was building, soft, tender, and entirely impossible to ignore.