Quiet before Spring -
Late winter was a stubborn thing.
The snow had stopped falling weeks ago, but it lingered anyway—packed hard into the ground, clinging to tree roots and burrow doors like it had something to prove. The sky stayed pale and tired, the sun weak as it dragged itself across the horizon.
Bunnymund stood outside the burrow, arms crossed, ears tipped forward against the cold wind. “S’pose this is the part o’ winter that don’t know when t’leave,” he muttered. “Bloody thing’s lingerin’ like a bad guest.”
Jack Frost was sprawled on the frozen ground nearby, carving idle patterns into the snow with his staff. His power hummed softly beneath his skin—steady, strong, but no longer sharp. Late winter suited him in a strange way. It wasn’t the thrill of the first freeze or the roar of a storm. It was quieter. Older.
“Winter’s just… catching its breath,” Jack said, glancing up at Bunny. “Can’t rush a good exit.”
Bunny snorted. “Yeah? Tell that to the carrots. They’re sick of waitin’.”
Jack laughed and pushed himself to his feet, frost curling around his boots as he moved closer. He brushed his hand along the burrow’s entrance, reinforcing the ice-lined supports he’d laid weeks ago. The magic came easily, flowing like muscle memory—no spark, no showmanship. Just purpose.
“You’ve been keeping it solid,” Bunny said, quieter now. “Reckon I’d be patchin’ holes nonstop if you weren’t here.”
Jack tilted his head, surprised. Compliments from Bunnymund were rare creatures—harder to catch than Easter eggs.
“Well,” he said lightly, “someone’s gotta make sure your precious burrow doesn’t collapse before spring shows up fashionably late.”
Bunny huffed, but there was fondness in it. He stepped closer, close enough that Jack could feel the warmth under his thick fur, the contrast to the cold air biting at his own skin. “Still… appreciate it, mate. Late winter’s a rough one. Not enough cold t’be useful, not enough warmth t’get things growin’.”
Jack looked at him then—really looked. At the weariness in Bunny’s eyes, the patience stretched thin but unbroken. Late winter did that. It tested the ones who kept things going.
“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “It’s the waiting that gets you.”
They stood there for a while, shoulder to shoulder, the world hushed under old snow. Somewhere beneath it all, the ground was preparing to wake—but for now, winter still had its say.
Jack let his frost drift outward, gentle and protective, not claiming new ground—just holding what was already there. Bunny leaned into it without comment, solid and steady as ever.
“Don’t get used to this,” Bunny muttered. “Soon as spring hits, you’ll be underfoot again.”
Jack grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving quietly.”
Late winter held on a little longer—but neither of them minded. Not like this.
