FALLING FOR MR SNOWFLAKE

Lily

I always loved the quiet just before the afternoon lessons. The air crisp and clean, kids tumbling around on their tiny skis and the hum of the lift in the background like a lullaby of winter. The snow today was soft and powdery.

I was sipping the last of my peppermint tea from a dented thermos when I saw him.

Jake.

Punctual this time, which was a small miracle in itself. He looked well, better geared, for starters. His jacket was sleek black, fitted, and clearly new. Not in a flashy way, but in the “I-don’t-shop-sales-rack” kind of way. His boots actually matched and his helmet didn’t look like it had survived three wars.

Still, he carried himself like a man preparing to face his doom.

“Hey, disaster” I called out with a grin, sliding my goggles up.

He gave me a sheepish smile as he trudged over, skis balanced awkwardly on his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’m now a seasoned skier. I watched three YouTube videos last night.”

“Did they cover falling with flair? Because that’s your specialty.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m practically an Olympic-level tumbler.”

He was joking, relaxed. His shoulders less tense than they were last time. Something about it made me feel lighter too.

We clicked into our skis and shuffled toward the bunny slope. The late-day sun cast long shadows across the snow, turning everything soft and golden. A few locals waved at me as we passed. One of the kids I taught on weekends shouted “Hi Miss Lily!” from the lift.

Jake glanced sideways at me. “Celebrity status, huh?”

I shrugged. “Small town. People wave.”

“I think someone just handed you a muffin from their pocket.”

“That happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed and it caught me off guard. There was something magnetic about Jake’s laugh, like it came from deep inside him and didn’t get out very often.

“All right” I said, stopping near the top of the bunny hill. “Let’s see what those YouTube videos taught you.”

Jake inhaled like he was about to jump out of a plane. “If I break anything, you’re driving me to the hospital.”

“I’ll sled you down personally” I promised.

He pushed off cautiously and to my surprise, he didn’t immediately fall.

Sure, his arms flailed a little, and his knees wobbled like spaghetti, but he managed to make it about twenty feet without eating snow. I let out a celebratory cheer.

Jake reached the bottom, slightly out of breath but grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off a magic trick. “Did you see that?”

“I’m not sure whether to clap or call the Guinness World Records” I teased, skiing up beside him. “That was actually decent.”

He raised his hands in victory. “Decent! You hear that, Aspenridge? Your girl just called me decent!”

A few people turned at the noise, and I blushed, laughing as I shoved his arm gently. “Come on, hotshot. Let’s go again.”

We spent the next hour running drills slow descents, pizza stops, the occasional dramatic fall. He got better. Smoother. And even when he messed up, he didn’t get frustrated the way most beginners did. He laughed at himself, shook it off, tried again.

And I couldn’t help but notice how he listened to my instructions. Took them to heart. Looked at me when I spoke like my words mattered.

Most tourists treated the bunny hill like a temporary annoyance on their way to bigger slopes. Jake treated it like a destination.

After our fifth run, I called for a break. We unclipped from our skis and collapsed onto the wooden bench near the edge of the slope, under a pair of pine trees dusted in white. He was flushed, sweaty, and panting.

“You’re not bad” I said, tossing him a half-squished granola bar from my pocket.

He looked at it like it was a precious artifact. “This is gourmet compared to my last protein bar. That one exploded.”

“I don’t want to know.”

He peeled it open, took a bite, and groaned. “Oh my god. Actual food. You’re an angel.”

I leaned back on the bench, letting the cold wood press through my jacket, and watched the slope for a moment. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the sky in soft pastels. There was something peaceful about it all. Just us, and the snow, and the world quietly spinning on.

Then, without planning it, I asked, “So… what brought you here?”

Jake froze mid-bite.

“To Aspenridge, I mean,” I clarified, trying to keep my voice light. “We don’t exactly get a ton of guys like you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guys like me?”

“You know. Mysterious loners with nice gear and zero skiing ability.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a crumb off his gloves. “Fair enough.”

I waited, not pushing, just sipping the silence.

Finally, he said “I guess I needed to… disappear for a while.”

I tilted my head, curious.

“Not in a dramatic way” he added quickly. “Just… my life got loud. Complicated. I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could breathe and not be expected to perform.”

“Perform?”

He shrugged, eyes on the slope now. “Be who people think I am.”

I studied him, the set of his jaw, the way his fingers fiddled with his gloves like he was keeping something in. A secret. A wound. Maybe both.

“Well” I said gently, “you picked a good town for disappearing. We don’t ask a lot of questions here.”

Jake looked at me and something passed between us,quiet and fragile.

“What about you?” he asked. “Why stay?”

That question. People always asked it like it was strange, like staying meant something was missing. But I smiled.

“Because I like it here” I said simply. “I like the way the snow smells in the morning. The way people leave casseroles on your porch when you’re sick. I like teaching kids how to ski and falling asleep knowing I did something real that day.”

He watched me like I was saying something he hadn’t heard before.

“That sounds… nice” he murmured.

“It is.”

We sat like that for a moment, wrapped in the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The slope buzzed with laughter and shouts and skis carving turns in the snow. But here, under the pine trees, it felt like our own little bubble.

Eventually, I stood, brushing the snow off my pants. “Lesson’s not over, mystery man.”

Jake groaned theatrically but stood too. “Do I at least get a sticker or something?”

I grinned. “If you don’t fall on this next run, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

“High stakes.”

We clipped into our skis again and slid toward the slope, side by side. His elbow bumped mine, and he didn’t move away. I didn’t either.

As he started down the hill, a little wobbly but determined, I let myself watch him and realized I liked teaching him. Not just because he listened, or because he was funny and weird and surprisingly unpretentious, but because something about him made me feel seen.

Jake wasn’t like the tourists who came and went with their designer jackets and ego bruises. He was different.

And that made me nervous.

Because people like him? They didn’t usually stay.

But for now, I followed him down the slope, laughing when he stumbled, cheering when he stayed upright.