The world is hushed, buried under a thick layer of fresh snow. The air is sharp, biting at the tip of your nose, but you don’t care—you are too busy kicking your boots excitedly against the car seat, too bundled in layers of fleece and wool to do much else.

Your father pulls the seat belt across you, his fingers fumbling with the latch. His gloves make it awkward, and when he finally clicks it into place, he lets out a dramatic sigh. “There. Ready for battle my little daredevil.”

You giggle.

The car is cold, but the smell of him is strong—aftershave, cologne, mouthwash. Something crisp, something clean. Something deliberate.

To you, he smells like the snow-topped pine trees you see walking down the hallmark aisle at Christmas.

He cranks the key and the engine hums to life, and so does the radio—a low murmur of static before the music comes through. He adjusts the dial with careful precision, flicking past talk shows and Christmas jingles before settling on something slow, something familiar.

“Listen up,” he says. “This is a good one.”

And so you listen to a mix of power chords and synth keys and a singer droning on about being a sucker for pretty faces and you think to yourself for the first time: Do I have a pretty face?

The drive is long, but the snow makes it feel endless, like the world has folded in on itself, a silent cocoon of white wool and headlights and music.

You don’t notice the hole in his sleeve when he reaches for the steering wheel with one hand, or the way he taps his fingers against it in time with the beat.

You only notice him and how big he looks towering above the seat, staring out over the frozen plains, driving you in the direction of adventure.

And then—

The car slows. The tires crunch over packed snow as he pulls into a small lot. A hill rises before you, blanketed in untouched white, untamed, waiting.

“We made it,” he announces, stepping out into the cold. His boots hit the ground with a heavy crunch. He walks around to the passenger door, opens it and looks at you, a matching glimmer in both your eyes. “You ready?”

You nod so hard your hat nearly slips over your eyes.

He retrieves the sled from the trunk—a bright red plastic thing that doesn’t look nearly as sturdy as you’d like. But you trust him when he takes your hand, leading you up the hill, step by careful step.

At the top, you both stand for a moment, looking down. The world is still, except for the gentle whistling of wind through the trees.

“Take the front, Captain,” he says, plopping down behind you. “I’ll man the rudders.”

You grip the sides, heart pounding, anticipation curling in your chest.

He pushes off—

And then—

Everything falls away.

The sled plunges forward, weightless, wind whipping against your cheeks, laughter bubbling up from deep inside your chest. Your father whoops behind you, gripping your waist as you both fly, faster, faster—

The trees blur, the cold stings, the hill stretches forever.

For these few seconds, there is nothing else.

No house, no fights, no tension hanging heavy in the air.

There is only movement. Only breathless, reckless joy.

At the bottom, you tumble into the snow in a fit of laughter, the sled forgotten. Your father groans dramatically, rolling onto his back. “Warp speed achieved Captain.”

You squeal, already trying to scramble back up the hill. Again. Again. Again.

And he laughs, then breathes deeply and follows.