The snow had been falling since dawn, the kind of lazy, drifting flakes that looked pretty until you remembered you were driving up a mountain road with questionable tire tread. Ivy Hartley leaned forward over the steering wheel, her curly brunette hair bouncing with each pothole as she muttered to herself.

“Romantic Christmas getaway, she said. Perfect for reconnection, she said.” Ivy’s green eyes narrowed. “Well, Carla, I hope you’re very happy… wherever you’re reconnecting without me.”

The breakup was fresh—so fresh Ivy still had the texts she wasn’t reading. But she refused to let one unreliable woman ruin her holiday. She had booked this cabin months ago. She had planned mulled wine, cheesy films, and a whole playlist titled Festive & Slightly Naughty. She would enjoy the cabin anyway. Alone. With excessive wine.

She finally turned into the last bend. A soft plume of smoke curled from a chimney. Lights glowed warmly through frosted windows. Ivy grinned.

“Mine,” she declared, grabbing her bag and trudging up the steps.

But as she reached for the door, it swung open.

A tall woman—long blonde hair streaked with elegant silver, wrapped in a thick cream jumper, strong arms exposed where the sleeves pushed back—blinked at her in surprise.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

Ivy froze, gripping her duffel bag a little too tightly. “Hi. You… are?”

The woman gave a small, apologetic smile. “July Ward. And I think you’re at my cabin.”

Ivy stared. “Your cabin? No, no—this is my cabin. Or at least my Airbnb confirmation says so.”

July lifted her brows with calm, unbothered maturity—the kind that came from Pilates, herbal tea, and absolutely not dating chaotic women.

“Funny,” July said gently, “mine says the same.”

They both pulled out their phones, stepping closer to compare booking codes. Ivy noticed July smelled faintly of lavender and winter wind. July noticed Ivy’s curls were fighting a losing battle against the snow, forming little ringlets across her forehead.

The codes matched.

The dates matched.

And the cabin—of course—was double booked.

Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is what I get for trying to overachieve at Christmas.”

July laughed softly. “Well… I did plan to be here with someone.” Her smile flickered. “It didn’t work out.”

“Oh.” Ivy lowered her bag. “Same here. My ex bailed three days ago.”

July huffed, something between amusement and sympathy. “Mine bailed last week. Said the ‘spark’ wasn’t there anymore.”

Ivy muttered, “Mine found a spark with her personal trainer.”

July blinked. “Oh. Well. That’s worse.”

“Thank you,” Ivy said.

Another gust of snow swirled around them, and the temperature dropped sharply.

July glanced at the sky. “Storm’s rolling in faster than the forecast said.”

Ivy frowned. “So… what? We both leave?”

July looked at the weather, then at Ivy, then at the cozy cabin behind her. She bit the inside of her cheek, then offered a tentative smile.

“We could… share?”

Ivy hesitated for exactly one second—then shrugged. “I mean, sure. What’s Christmas without a little chaos?”

July stepped aside to let her in.

As Ivy crossed the threshold, warm air wrapped around her, carrying the scents of burning pine and cinnamon. July closed the door behind them as wind howled outside.

“Well,” Ivy said, dropping her bag. “I guess we’re cabinmates.”

“Cabinsisters,” July offered.

“Cabinfrenemies?”

July laughed. “Cabin companions?”

Ivy grinned. “I’ll allow it.”

---

Day One – Snowbound Strangers

The storm worsened overnight. By morning, snow was banked halfway up the porch railings. July was already awake, stretching gracefully by the window, long limbs moving with the effortless strength of someone who had taught Pilates to women half her age and still outperformed them.

Ivy, bleary-eyed in an oversized tee, paused in the kitchen with her mug. She watched for a moment—just a moment—before July glanced back with a raised eyebrow.

“Enjoying the view?”

Ivy coughed on her coffee. “I wasn’t, I mean, you were. The view is… there.”

July smiled knowingly. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

They settled into a gentle rhythm: Ivy making chaotic breakfasts (scrambled eggs that narrowly avoided being omelettes, toast done “artistically burnt”), July tidying with serene precision. Their conversations stayed light—favorite Christmas films, worst holiday disasters, the eternal debate of marshmallows in hot chocolate.

But the energy between them? It buzzed. Warm. Curious. A little mischievous.

---

Day Two – Tree, Lights, & Almost-Mistletoe

They decided the cabin needed a proper Christmas tree.

Dragging one through knee-deep snow, Ivy slipped, swore, and toppled sideways. July caught her by the elbow, steadying her with strong hands.

“You okay?” July asked, face close, breath warm in the cold air.

Ivy’s heart did something dramatic and inconvenient. “Yep. Fine. Totally intended a snow angel.”

July smirked. “Very realistic.”

Inside, they decorated the tree. Ivy hung ornaments recklessly high; July stood behind her, one hand on Ivy’s waist to steady her as she reached.

Neither mentioned how long that hand lingered.

Neither mentioned the heat blooming under their jumpers.

Later, Ivy held up a strand of lights. “Do you know how to untangle these?”

July sighed, taking the ball of disaster. “Yes. I’ve dated women with children. I am trained.”

Ivy snorted with laughter, cheeks flushing. July grinned proudly.

And when Ivy accidentally brushed her fingers along July’s wrist, passing an ornament, July’s breath hitched.

---

Day Three – Cookies, Movies & Too Many Heated Glances

The storm raged on. They baked cookies—badly. Flour covered the counter, Ivy’s curls, and July’s jumper. At one point, Ivy flicked a bit of dough at July; July retaliated with a precise dab of flour to Ivy’s nose.

“Truce,” Ivy said, holding up her hands.

July leaned in, brushing the flour from Ivy’s cheek with her thumb. “Truce,” she murmured.

For a moment, neither moved.

The fire crackled softly.

Then July stepped back, cheeks pink. “Movies?”

“Yes. Movies. Exactly. Movies are good.”

They curled up under a shared blanket, sipping hot chocolate. A romantic holiday film played, but neither truly watched it.

Not when Ivy kept drawing her knees up, brushing against July’s thigh…

Not when July’s arm draped casually behind Ivy…

Not when their shoulders pressed closer and closer…

Ivy felt the magnetic pull between them like static in the winter air.

July felt it too—she was too composed not to notice—but she let the tension simmer, warm and slow.

---

Christmas Eve – Lingerie & Realisation

By the time Christmas Eve arrived, the world outside was still buried in white. They’d fallen into an easy closeness—shared cooking, shared conversations, shared little looks that lasted too long and felt too warm.

That evening, Ivy poured two glasses of wine. July sat cross-legged before the fire, wrapped in a soft blanket, her long hair falling over her shoulders like pale silk threaded with winter.

Ivy sat beside her. “So… confession.”

July raised a brow. “Oh?”

“I brought lingerie.” Ivy took a sip of wine. “For my ex. Matching set. Red. Festive. Regretful.”

July blinked, then laughed. “You too?”

Ivy choked on her drink. “You bought lingerie? For yours?”

July nodded, biting her lip. “Black. Lace. Elegant… She never saw it.”

The fire crackled as both women sat in quiet surprise.

Ivy’s eyes sparkled. “Want to… show each other? Purely as a ‘we didn’t waste money’ thing.”

July pretended to consider. “A practical demonstration?”

“Very practical,” Ivy agreed.

They stood at the same time.

They fetched their respective bags at the same time.

And returned to the fireplace wearing thick bathrobes, which somehow made the moment feel both ridiculous and intimate.

July opened her robe slightly to reveal delicate black lace against toned skin. Elegant straps. Soft sheer fabric. Ivy’s breath caught.

“Oh wow,” Ivy whispered. “Your ex was a fool. A certified, medically diagnosable fool.”

July blushed, actually blushed, and gestured for Ivy’s turn.

Ivy slipped her robe open to reveal vibrant red satin trimmed with gold thread, playful bows at the hips, cups shaped to flatter curves. July’s lips parted softly.

“Ivy,” she murmured. “You look…”

“Festive?” Ivy offered.

“Stunning.”

They both laughed—soft, nervous, warm.

But neither closed their robe.

They stepped closer.

Firelight flickered across their skin.

The storm outside had quieted, leaving only the pop of burning logs and the soft, uneven rhythm of their breaths.

Ivy looked up into July’s eyes, green meeting warm ocean-blue. July reached out, fingertips grazing the soft skin of Ivy’s waist.

Ivy mirrored the gesture, her hand brushing July’s hip.

Neither spoke.

The world shrank to firelight, soft lingerie, and the shape of a woman discovering something unexpected and wonderful at Christmas.

They stood there—two women who had come to this cabin for someone else, yet somehow found each other.

The moment stretched.

July whispered, “Merry Christmas, Ivy.”

Ivy smiled, eyes bright, voice trembling with something new and certain. “Merry Christmas, July.”

And they stayed there—close enough for their breath to mingle, close enough to fall into something beautiful—standing before the fire, staring into each other’s eyes as Christmas Eve wrapped around them like a promise.