Page 91 of Beloved Beauty

He grins. “Don’t worry. Violet took care of everything. She packed you a winter boutique.”

Outside the jet’s small window, the world is a different color—blue-gray skies and whitewashed earth. Thick snow drapes the trees in the distance. The tarmac glistens, slick with frost and morning light. We descend the steps, and my boots crunch the packed snow beneath us while my breath fogs in the air.

The driver greets us in soft Swedish, and Alex responds in a language I’ve never heard him use before. That’s when I realize this is more than a random place on a map. This is the other part of him.

“Welcome to Sweden, favorite.”

The drive from the airport winds through a blur of evergreens and snow-draped hills, the city fading behind us. Everything grows quieter. Peaceful.

By the time we reach the cabin, my body has no idea what day it is. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I lost track of time—nights and days twisted into one long blur.

Outside, the sky is turning that deep Scandinavian indigo. A heavy hush blankets the landscape—trees, ground, roof—all tucked under snow. The tires crunch over the frozen drive as we pull up to the cabin.

But it’s more than a cabin. It’s a glass-topped secret tucked into the woods, with tall black-framed windows. Inside, the floors are heated. I slip off my boots and wiggle my toes, letting the warmth chase the cold from my bones. My breath still fogs near the door, but the rest of me begins to thaw. I pad barefoot across the soft rug while Alex carries our bags.

Wood waits in the hearth, stacked but unlit. He’s moving first thing—kneeling by it, striking a match. He’s focused and quiet, methodical in a way that tugs at something low in my chest. Watching him this way—his broad back bending so he can work on the fire––I’m reminded of how capable he is.

And how safe I am with him.

He turns just as the flames catch, his face lit by flickering gold, his smile softer now. “Come here.”

I cross the room and he wraps his arms around me. We stay that way for a while, the warmth growing slow and steady as the snow falls above us on the glass ceiling.

When the fire burns strong and the lights dim to something softer than candlelight, he leads me toward the fur-draped bed tucked against the wall of windows.

We don’t speak.

Because we don’t need to.

After, we stay wrapped around each other, skin to skin, the heat between us slow to fade. My fingers trail along his chest without purpose, just to touch him. There’s no need to fill the silence—we’ve already said everything that matters without words.

Snow drifts above us like stars we can almost touch. The fire burns low, casting golden light across his chest, and I press my cheek to it, listening to the steady rhythm.

No words. Just peace.

Morning comes and, the sky is pale, the snow falling in a way that makes everything appear as though it’s wrapped in soft velvet. Alex doesn’t say much as we drive north—just holds my hand across the center console as we take in the beauty surrounding us.

The roads narrow as we drive. Houses grow smaller. The world shifts from city crispness to something humbler and quieter. Somewhere along the route, I realize this is more than sightseeing.

“This was Dad’s church when he was growing up,” Alex says as the car slows in front of a small white chapel with chipped paint, nestled between bare-limbed birches. The steeple leans, but there’s something proud in the way it still stands. “My grandparents were married here. They used to walk to service.”

“Even in the snow?”

“Especially in the snow.”

The air bites when we step out. Our boots crunch over a path, breath fogging as we make our way toward the front steps. Alex’s fingers brush mine, and I take his hand, weaving our gloved fingers together.

Inside, it’s colder than I expect, but golden light filters through high windows, casting soft halos across the wooden pews. The altar is simple, and the air smells of old stone, candle wax, and a sweetness I can’t place.

Alex doesn’t explore right away. He stands in the center aisle, looking up at the beams. I rest my head against his shoulder, saying nothing as he takes it in.

He stands for a moment, rooted in the center aisle of the village church, eyes tracing the weathered wooden beams overhead. It’s a history we’ve never touched, one he rarely speaks of, but there’s something about this place that softens him.

I slide my arm around his waist, and my heart tightens with a new clarity. This is his legacy, too. Our children will grow up knowing they also belong to this culture and its beautiful heritage.

“I’m glad I brought you here.”

“Me too. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

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