FALLING FOR MR SNOWFLAKE

Lily

There’s nothing quite like the quiet after a snowfall.

Up here, the world feels suspended in time pine trees draped in white, rooftops sugar-dusted, and the slopes stretching out like a canvas waiting for the first brushstroke. The air is so crisp it stings the tip of my nose, and the snow beneath my skis is perfect fluffy but firm. The kind of snow instructors like me dream of.

I carve a slow curve into the hillside, just for the feel of it. My legs know what to do, my body responding like second nature. I’ve skied this mountain since I was old enough to stand, and even now, after years of teaching wobbly tourists and overconfident teenagers, it still feels like home.

Until I hear the yell.

It cuts through the still morning air like a snapped branch. Sharp. Human.

My eyes scan the slope and there he was.

A man in a sleek white jacket and glossy helmet is barreling downhill like an out-of-control shopping cart. Arms flailing. Legs bent in all the wrong ways. He’s not skiing. He’s surviving. Barely.

“Shift your weight!” I yell before I even think about it.

He doesn’t.

He hits a bump and catches a terrifying bit of air. My stomach drops. His left ski lands first, catches on something, and suddenly he’s veering sideways right towards a tree.

Crap.

I launch forward, skiing straight down with reckless speed. Not exactly instructor protocol, but I’m not about to watch this poor guy turn into pine bark.

By the time I reach him, he’s face-first in a snowbank, limbs sprawled in what looks like a very undignified snow angel. His skis are still attached, but barely. His goggles are crooked, helmet tilted like it’s trying to escape.

“You alive?” I ask, dropping to a knee beside him.

He groans and pushes himself up slowly. “I think I broke my dignity.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “Happens to the best of us.”

He looks up at me then, and I’m not prepared for how blue his eyes are. Icy, glacier-blue like something out of a travel magazine. He blinks a few times, dazed, before trying to sit up fully. He winces.

“And possibly a rib.”

“Let’s start with sitting.” I hold out a hand. “Come on.”

He takes it, warm fingers closing around mine, and I help pull him into a more dignified position. Or as dignified as one can be while half-buried in a snowdrift. He’s tall and broad-shouldered under his jacket, dark hair peeking out beneath his helmet and annoyingly still handsome even after wiping out.

“I should’ve stayed on the bunny hill.” he mutters.

“Let me guess...first time?”

“Was it that obvious?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You have the gear of someone who knows what they’re doing and the form of someone who absolutely doesn’t.”

He sighs, brushing snow from his sleeves. “I watched four YouTube videos.”

“Ah. The Holy Grail of ski training.”

He grins a little sheepish and my chest does a strange fluttery thing.

“I’ll look up How Not to Die While Skiing next time.” he says.

“You should also add How Not to Get Rescued by the Local Instructor Who Was Just Trying to Enjoy Her Morning.”

He blinks, then glances at my jacket. “Oh, right. It says ‘Instructor’ right there.”

I smirk. “Busted.”

“Guess I picked the right snowbank, then.”

“You’re lucky” I say, standing. “I happen to specialize in hopeless cases.”

He lets me help him to his feet, his balance still questionable. “In that case, I owe you.”

“No charge for the first rescue.” I tease. “But the next one’s gonna cost you.”

He laughs this soft, genuine sound that makes me want to hear it again.

“I’m Jake” he says.

“Lily” I reply. “And Jake, I’m giving you a free lesson before you injure yourself or someone else.”

“Very reasonable.”

 It turns out, Jake is even worse at skiing than I expected but I don’t mind.

We find a quiet beginner slope, and I walk him through the basics: posture, balance, weight shifts, how to fall without dying. He listens with the kind of focus I usually only get from nervous dads on family vacations.

Of course, listening doesn’t mean executing.

On his fifth fall, he groans dramatically. “I swear, these skis are cursed.”

“They’re not cursed. They just don’t like you yet.”

He flops onto his back. “It’s mutual.”

I help him up,again and he stares at the hill like it personally offended him. His face is flushed pink from the cold, his lashes dusted with snow, and there’s something… endearing about how hard he’s trying. Like he wants to get this right, not to impress anyone, but just to prove he can.

“So what’s your verdict?” he asks. “Am I your worst student ever?”

“Not even close.” I say. “There was this guy last winter who tried to ski in cowboy boots.”

His eyebrows lift. “And here I thought I was special.”

“Oh, you’re special. But in a ‘needs a helmet indoors’ kind of way.”

He laughs again, and it’s honest and loud and lovely.

By the time he manages a full run without falling, I throw my hands in the air like he just won a gold medal.

“Victory!” I shout.

Jake beams. “Are we sure it wasn’t just luck?”

“Doesn’t matter. We take our wins where we can.”

He lifts his arm for a high five, but I move too fast and somehow end up hugging him instead. Just for a second.

His arms wrap around me automatically, firm and warm, and the contact makes my breath hitch. He smells like snow and cedarwood and something faintly expensive.

We both freeze, then step back quickly.

“Reflex” he says, his voice awkwardly casual. “Sorry.”

“Skiing does weird things to people” I mumble.

“It’s the altitude” he says. “Definitely not your smile.”

I blink. My heart stumbles.

'' What? ''

We take one lift ride together before I have to head back for my next lesson. He’s quiet on the way up, staring out over the valley like he’s never seen anything like it before. Maybe he hasn’t.

“I’m gonna try this one alone.” he says at the top.

“You sure?”

“I’ve got this.” he declares, then adds, “Probably.”

I smirk. “Remember what I taught you.”

He nods, pushes off slowly, and makes his way down. His form is messy, but controlled. Not terrible. Until the very end, when he gets cocky and falls flat on his back.

Back at the lodge, we warm up near the fire. Jake shakes snow from his hair and flashes me a lopsided grin.

“I think I’m made entirely of bruises.”

“You’re not alone.”

He hesitates at the door, stuffing his gloves into his coat pocket. “Thanks, Lily. Seriously. You saved me.”

“I do what I can for the tragically uncoordinated.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but I beat him to it.

“If you’re sticking around, I could give you a real lesson. Scheduled. More professional. Less falling.”

His face lights up like I just handed him hot cocoa and a winning lottery ticket. “I’d like that.”

I grab a napkin from the counter and scribble my number. “Text me. We’ll set something up.”

He tucks the napkin into his pocket with exaggerated care. “I’ll keep it safe. Like a treasure map.”

And then, with a final smile that sends butterflies into full-blown flight, he disappears into the softly falling snow.

That night, curled on my couch under a blanket with my favorite cocoa mug in hand, I keep thinking about him.

Jake.

There was something different about him. Not just the cute clumsiness or the way he made me laugh but something beneath the surface. Like he wasn’t just here for the slopes, like he was escaping something or maybe searching.

And then, just as I’m about to head to bed, my phone buzzes.

Are emergency cocoa lessons included in your ski package? Asking for a friend with sore legs and a bruised ego.

I grin.

Only if the friend promises not to ski into the hot cocoa stand.

I laugh into my blanket and sip my cocoa, heart warm despite the winter chill.

Maybe this season isn’t going to be so cold after all.