Lost Lovers // W2S

It started as a joke.

They were huddled around Freya's kitchen island a few nights after rehearsal, nursing lukewarm drinks and post-soundcheck exhaustion, when someone—probably Ethan—said, "You know what we need? A break. Like, a real one. Somewhere cold. With snow. And hot tubs."

"Hot tubs?" Freya repeated, deadpan. "You want a ski holiday just to sit in a bathtub outside."

"Yes," Ethan said with the sincerity of someone deeply tired. "Exactly that."

Talia perked up. "Wait. That's actually not the worst idea."

It spiraled from there. Within twenty minutes, Freya had a spreadsheet, Simon had opinions about the best snow conditions in the Alps, and Zara had half-agreed without really meaning to.

But then the chalet was booked. Non-refundable. And somehow, she and Harry were both going.

It had been weeks since their soft restart—complicated and unlabelled but unmistakably real. She hadn't questioned whether he'd come. He just did. She also needed this break. Before all the madness started. Her first tour.

The chalet sat tucked into a quiet slope, like something out of a Christmas card. Heavy snow blanketed the roof, icicles dripping from the eaves, and inside, it was all creaky wood floors and thick plaid blankets. Zara didn't ski. Neither did Harry, really. But it wasn't about that.

It was about this.

Everyone being together. Before her tour started. Before everything changed again.

As they scrambled through the house assigning rooms, the chaos quickly revealed one flaw in the plan.

"There are only two double beds," Freya announced from the landing.

"I called one!" she added quickly. "Me and Josh."

Talia shoved past her, dragging her suitcase. "Then me and Simon get the other."

That left a twin room and a bunk room with ceilings so low, Ethan audibly cursed upon entry.

Zara looked over at Harry.

Of course.

Of course it would be them.

She kept her voice light. "I want the bed by the window."

Harry nodded like it had already been decided. "Figured."

They stepped into the room—two narrow beds with matching plaid duvets, the air just a little cooler by the glass. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't anything.

But it was something.

"Roomies again," he said, dropping his bag.

"Don't snore."

"I don't."

"You do when you're drunk."

He grinned. "Guess you'll have to keep me sober, then."

She turned away before he could see her smile.

By the time night fell, the kitchen smelled like mulled wine and disaster.

Freya was singing something off-key with one boot on the table, Simon was trying to teach Ethan a drinking game no one could follow, and someone had spilled cider across the floor but forgotten to clean it. Zara ducked out before anyone noticed, slipping on a borrowed hoodie and making her way to the firepit just outside the chalet.

It was half-buried in snow, but the flames crackled low, warm and orange against the dark. She curled into one of the chairs, legs tucked beneath her.

A few minutes passed. Then footsteps—loud, uneven, familiar.