It was Steve's idea.
"Let's go somewhere," he had said on Thursday afternoon. "Just for the weekend. No books. No deadlines. Just… us."
Michelle hesitated only a second before saying yes.
They borrowed Steve's sister's car and drove out of the city late Friday afternoon. The sun was already lowering behind the hills, casting golden light over the road. Michelle had her feet on the dashboard, a cozy playlist humming through the speakers, and Steve's hand resting gently over hers on the center console.
They didn't speak much during the drive. They didn't need to.
They reached the cabin just after dark. It was small and tucked in the woods, surrounded by trees that whispered in the wind. There was no Wi-Fi. No signal.
And that was perfect.
Inside, the fireplace crackled softly as Steve lit it. Michelle curled up on the couch with a thick sweater and a cup of hot tea he made just for her. The room smelled like pinewood and cinnamon.
"I can't remember the last time I heard this much silence," she said, her voice quiet, almost reverent.
Steve sat beside her, pulling a blanket over both of them. "That's because we're always surrounded by noise. But this… this is real."
She leaned into him and closed her eyes. "It feels like a dream."
"No," he whispered. "This feels more like waking up."
Saturday morning came slowly.
Michelle woke up to the sound of birds and the faint rustling of leaves. Sunlight filtered through the window, and for a moment, she forgot everything else. Steve was still asleep beside her, his arm draped around her waist, his face relaxed in a way she rarely got to see.
She turned toward him, and just looked.
How could someone feel like home in such a short time?
He stirred slightly, opening his eyes.
"Good morning," he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.
"Hi," she smiled, cheeks warm.
He reached up, brushing his fingers gently across her cheek. "You look like you belong here."
"So do you," she whispered.
He leaned in and kissed her slowly—still sleepy, still soft, like a promise wrapped in silence.
Later, they took a walk through the woods. Steve carried a little backpack with snacks and water, and Michelle picked up colorful leaves along the way, holding them up to the sun. They laughed. Talked about nothing and everything. Took silly photos. And once, when she tripped over a root, he caught her, held her for a second longer than he needed to, and said, "Maybe I tripped on you too."
That night, they lay by the fireplace again, wrapped in the same blanket, listening to the fire pop and crack.
Michelle rested her head on his chest.
"Can I tell you something?" she asked, her voice softer than ever.
Steve tilted his head. "Of course."
"I've never felt this safe before."
He kissed her hair. "That's all I ever want you to feel."
She lifted her head, looked into his eyes, and kissed him again. This time deeper. Slower. Like her heart had made a decision.
When they finally pulled away, she smiled against his lips.
"I think I'm falling for you," she whispered.
Steve's voice was almost trembling. "Then I'm already there."
They didn't say anything more that night. They didn't have to.
Because everything important had already been said between the lines—in laughter, in silence,in every touch,and every look.