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Wood waits in the hearth, stacked but unlit. He’s moving first thing—kneeling by it, striking a match. He’s focused and quiet, methodical in a way that tugs at something low in my chest. Watching him this way—his broad back bending so he can work on the fire––I’m reminded of how capable he is.

And how safe I am with him.

He turns just as the flames catch, his face lit by flickering gold, his smile softer now. “Come here.”

I cross the room and he wraps his arms around me. We stay that way for a while, the warmth growing slow and steady as the snow falls above us on the glass ceiling.

When the fire burns strong and the lights dim to something softer than candlelight, he leads me toward the fur-draped bed tucked against the wall of windows.

We don’t speak.

Because we don’t need to.

After, we stay wrapped around each other, skin to skin, the heat between us slow to fade. My fingers trail along his chest without purpose, just to touch him. There’s no need to fill the silence—we’ve already said everything that matters without words.

Snow drifts above us like stars we can almost touch. The fire burns low, casting golden light across his chest, and I press my cheek to it, listening to the steady rhythm.

No words. Just peace.

Morning comes and, the sky is pale, the snow falling in a way that makes everything appear as though it’s wrapped in soft velvet. Alex doesn’t say much as we drive north—just holds my hand across the center console as we take in the beauty surrounding us.

The roads narrow as we drive. Houses grow smaller. The world shifts from city crispness to something humbler and quieter. Somewhere along the route, I realize this is more than sightseeing.

“This was Dad’s church when he was growing up,” Alex says as the car slows in front of a small white chapel with chipped paint, nestled between bare-limbed birches.

The steeple leans, but there’s something proud in the way it still stands.

“My grandparents were married here. They used to walk to service.”

“Even in the snow?”

“ Especially in the snow.”

The air bites when we step out. Our boots crunch over a path, breath fogging as we make our way toward the front steps. Alex’s fingers brush mine, and I take his hand, weaving our gloved fingers together.

Inside, it’s colder than I expect, but golden light filters through high windows, casting soft halos across the wooden pews. The altar is simple, and the air smells of old stone, candle wax, and a sweetness I can’t place.

Alex doesn’t explore right away. He stands in the center aisle, looking up at the beams. I rest my head against his shoulder, saying nothing as he takes it in.

He stands for a moment, rooted in the center aisle of the village church, eyes tracing the weathered wooden beams overhead. It’s a history we’ve never touched, one he rarely speaks of, but there’s something about this place that softens him.

I slide my arm around his waist, and my heart tightens with a new clarity. This is his legacy, too. Our children will grow up knowing they also belong to this culture and its beautiful heritage.

“I’m glad I brought you here.”

“Me too. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Alex shifts beside me and glances down just as his stomach lets out a loud, unmistakable growl. “Well, I guess you heard that. Are you ready for breakfast?”

Not really, but I know that look in his eyes. My man is always hungry. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“I’m taking you somewhere special.”

The cafe he takes us to is tucked into the side of a small general store. The moment we step through the door, the scent wraps around me—sweet bread, strong coffee, something buttery and warm.

Behind the counter stands an aging woman, her gray hair wrapped in a cheerful floral scarf, eyes sharp and kind. When she sees Alex, her entire face brightens.

“Alexander!” She says his name with a heavy Swedish accent and rounds the counter with a hug that’s all backbone and affection. He responds in soft, fluent Swedish, his voice low as he speaks to her.

I stand back and watch their interaction unfold; this a version of him I’ve never seen before.

“She refuses to learn English.”

She turns to me, and her smile deepens. Alex introduces us in Swedish first, then in English. Her name is Britta, and she used to bake cinnamon rolls for his father when he was a boy.

She kisses the sides of my face and says, “Ahhh… vacker, Alexander.”

Alex smiles. “Britta says you’re beautiful.”

Oh, how sweet. “How do I say thank you?”

“ Tack but if you want to show off you can say Tack s? mycket . That means thank you very much.”

Of course I want to show off. “Tack s? mycket.”

She beams and kisses the sides of my face again, saying something else I don’t understand.

Then she moves to Alex, cupping his cheeks in both hands. She kisses the sides of his face too—twice, quick and warm—before muttering something tender in Swedish.

Alex laughs under his breath, his hand finding the small of my back. “She tells me I look like Dad,” he says. “She says it every time she sees me, and I always feel like I should correct her, because clearly, I don’t look like Dad.”

We’re about to have our first disagreement as husband and wife. “You’re wrong, Alex. Just because your coloring and body builds are different doesn’t mean you don’t look like your father. She sees something in you that reminds her of Alexander, and I see it too.”

His brow wrinkles. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

Britta disappears into the back of the cafe and we slide into a small corner booth, the table a little wobbly, the napkins folded into triangles. A few locals linger near the stove, speaking in Swedish.

She comes back, placing a plate between us—still-warm cinnamon buns, sugar crusted and thick with cardamom—and two mugs of thick hot chocolate that smell like heaven.

“Tack s? mycket, Britta.”

He slides the plate to me. “Best cinnamon roll you’ll ever eat.”

I tear off a piece from the center and pop it into my mouth. It’s soft and rich, with the perfect amount of cinnamon, the sugar caramelized just enough to stick to my fingertips. I close my eyes and moan. “Oh my God.” I grab another bite. “Damn, Alex. These are better than Cinnabons.”

He leans back, smug as hell. “Told you.”

I finish the roll, all grace thrown out the window, and lick the cinnamon off my thumb while he grins at me. We drink hot chocolate between bites, thick and sweet and a little salty, with a hint of something I can’t name but want more of.

The air smells of vanilla and nostalgia in this quiet little cafe tucked away in a village I never would’ve found on my own. I’m full and warm and content.

“You’ve ruined me with these cinnamon rolls. None will ever compare to these.”

Alex points to my face. “You’ve got sugar on your lip, babe.”

I go to wipe it, but he leans in and kisses it away instead. And in a snap, I realize I’m falling deeper in love with my husband… and his Swedish side.

Britta returns to the table and exchanges a few words with Alex in Swedish. I can’t follow a single word, but the exchange resembles a goodbye. As she leans in, he wraps her in a tight hug, and she pats his back.

She turns to me, pulling me into a soft, grandmotherly embrace. She presses a gentle kiss to each of my cheeks and says, “Adjo, min ?lskling. Jag hoppas att en dag se dina barn springa runt h?r med dig.”

I look to Alex for translation. “She says ‘Goodbye, my darling. I hope that one day I’ll see your children running around here with you.’”

My heart squeezes at her tender words. I nod, emotion thick in my throat. “I hope so as well.”

One day, I want to bring our children here to this village. I want them to know where they come from. To hear the lilt of this language, taste these meals, and experience the place that holds so much of their story.

Alex slips his fingers through mine and gives a gentle tug. “There’s one more place I want you to see.”

We trudge up a narrow, unshoveled path between heavy snowbanks. The trees crowd close, the sky a pale gray wash above. When the little house comes into view—stone-walled, sloped roof covered in snow—Alex stops.

“This is my grandparents’ first home. My grandfather built it with his own hands. And my dad was born here.”

The house is small and weather-worn. A shutter hangs slightly crooked. It’s nothing flashy. Nothing grand. But its realness and rich history make it beautiful in a way nothing polished ever could be.

He brushes snow off the wooden nameplate near the front door. “Here.”

I lean in and see it—faint but still there. A name carved into the wood.

Sebring.

My breath catches. I take off my glove and press my fingers over it, tracing each letter. “This is special, Alex.”

The pride I see in his eyes guts me a little. “You carry so much legacy. And you carry it all so well.”

“I wish I had learned more about this side of my family.”

“It’s not too late. You still have your dad. Come back here with him someday. Let him tell you the stories only he can. I want you to know them so you can pass them down to our babies.”

His smile spreads slow and tender. “ Our babies. Hearing you say that… you have no idea what that does to me.”

“Oh, I think I have some idea.”

His eyes drift over my face, full of something soft and simmering. “You wanna head back to the cabin… keep practicing?”

A laugh slips out as I lean in. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The sauna smells of cedar. Heat clings to my skin when we step in, wrapping around me like an embrace.

Alex pours water over the stones and the room hisses to life. Steam rises between us, and I sink onto the wooden bench, my legs stretched out, towel wrapped around me. My skin glows pink from the heat, and my hair clings to the back of my neck.

He sits across from me, sweat glistening at his temples, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

“I’m being roasted alive,” I say, half-laughing, wiping the sheen from my brow.