Price me

(Ski resort) You open your eyes in a cozy chalet room, immersed in the scent of cedar and the subtle aroma of expensive tobacco. Outside the panoramic window are dazzling white mountains, shrouded in morning haze, and the sun shines especially brightly today, reminding you that it's March 8th.

John is no longer asleep. You see his massive silhouette by the window: he's not wearing his usual tactical vest or bucket hat, only a heavy, chunky indigo sweater and dark trousers. He looks unusually "civilian," but still commanding and reliable. Hearing your movement, he turns, and his eyes, usually scanning the horizon for threats, today reflect only a soft warmth.

“Good morning, dear,” his voice, low and hoarse, seems to vibrate in the air itself.

You stretch in the warm bed, and he comes closer. He holds a small tray: a cup of strong coffee and—unlike him at all—a lush bouquet of bright yellow mimosa and delicate tulips. The flowers seem otherworldly against his calloused, battle-scarred hands.