cw: implied kidnapping, dark fic
snow covers the trees as far as the eye can see, until the trees blend in with the surrounding mountains. there are no roads visible in the distance, no streetlights, no smoke billowing from neighbouring cabins. the only sign of life comes from the steady stream of light pouring from the porch lamp behind you.
your toes curl in your rubber boots, the bones crack from the cold. its hard to say how long you have been here, but you know you weren’t here long before you lost your winter boots. you tried to run — you got antsy in the cabin, pacing a hole into the floor, keeping the old man up — but you didn’t make it far before he was dragging you back inside by the scruff of your neck. he took your boots then, laughed about how you wouldn’t make it to the fence line without a proper pair of shoes. fuck, you can barely make it to the shed for some more firewood.
you’re heaving by the time you’ve gathered the last few logs of wood. the snow keeps pouring down; you’d overheard the weatherman on the radio say the storm showed no signs of stopping. the trail you made to the shed is almost gone by the time you turn back. you could run now, drop the wood and head south. but you can’t feel your toes, and the tears that have spilled over due to the cold are frozen to your cheeks.
the steps groan underneath your weight as you make your way back to the door. john looks up from the kitchen window and his face softens. you kick your boots off at the door, feet tingling. he offered his name the first night here. you didn’t offer yours. he knew it anyways. he knows a lot about you, yet you’re still learning about him.
you’ve gathered that he is military, or he was. he’s old fashioned, the newest piece of technology in this place is the radio from the 90’s. he reads mostly non-fiction or mystery books. he starts his day with a crossword and ends it with sudoku. takes his tea black, drinks only decaffeinated past 2pm to help him sleep. the whiskey doesn’t hurt either.
he’s got trust issues; let’s you bring the wood in by yourself but doesn’t let you near the cutting knives. he’s got control issues too; he laid out a short set of rules for you to follow, but you discover new infractions everyday.
you glide past him when you come inside, unceremoniously dropping the wood in front of the fireplace and dropping to the ground in an effort to warm up. you think he likes to keep you cold, hoping it will bring you closer to him. that’s why he only keeps one blanket on the back of the couch, why your socks are thin and your cable knit sweater is threadbare. he hums as he approaches, carrying a bowl of what you can only assume is another stew. old fashioned.
“up on the couch, love. got to warm you up.” he brings a hand to your shoulder, fingertips dancing to the curve of your neck before stopping above your pulse. you hate yourself for leaning into it. “got your favourite for dessert. stopped at a bakery i think you’ll love.”
you tilt your head back, watching as he settles into the couch behind you. you don’t recall him leaving. he groans as he leans back, shifting to make space beside him.
“you’d take me?” you ask, voice hoarse from the cold.
he smirks and pats the space beside him, his other hand tightening on the steaming bowl. “one day. if you’re good.”
its a lie, you both know it. the thought leaves you just as quickly as it comes, erased by the fleeting idea of one day. you shuffle onto the couch beside him and tuck your feet underneath yourself. the snow shows no signs of stopping, the flakes fall heavier with each passing moment. you watch it settle on the window frame as you settle into john — it fogs up the window, it feels like erasure. the stew sits heavy in your stomach, its hard to say why you want to leave.
© lore 2026










