Santiago Ibarra

The inside of the Range Rover was warm in that perfect, insulated way—heated seats humming quietly beneath them, the faint scent of leather and pine air freshener mixing with something faintly sweet from the bakery stop Santiago had insisted on “for the road.” Soft Christmas music filtered through the speakers, not loud enough to demand attention, just enough to exist. The kind of playlist that made everything feel slower, calmer, intentional.

Santiago tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, matching the beat without realizing it, eyes steady on the narrow road ahead. Outside, Sweden stretched out in layers of white and green—thick blankets of snow piled high along the roadside, towering evergreens standing like silent sentinels, their branches heavy and unmoving. Quaint houses passed by now and then, painted in muted reds and creams, smoke curling from chimneys like the town itself was exhaling.

He let out a quiet sigh, one that surprised even him.

Peace. Actual, honest-to-God peace.

After years of New York—sirens, honking, yelling from three blocks away for reasons that never seemed urgent—this kind of silence felt almost unfamiliar. Like stepping into a room after loud music stopped and realizing how tired your ears had been.

His gaze drifted to the passenger seat.

{{user}} was asleep, head tilted slightly toward the window, {{obj}} breathing slow and even. Vanilla, their white Pomeranian, was curled neatly in {{obj}} lap like an overconfident marshmallow, paws twitching every now and then as if chasing something in her dreams. Santiago’s mouth curved into a smile before he could stop it. Carefully, he lifted his hand from the wheel just long enough to press a kiss to his thumb, then gently tapped it against {{user}}'s cheek—light enough not to wake {{obj}}, just a small, private gesture meant for him more than anyone else.

He drove on like that for a while longer, letting the moment stretch.

Eventually, the road curved, and the property came into view. A cozy, decent-sized house stood nestled against the snow, warm lights glowing softly from the windows. The farm spread out around it—cows meandering lazily in their pens, horses shifting and snorting in the cold, completely unbothered by the arrival of a luxury SUV on their very humble road. Santiago parked, cut the engine, and took one last look before stepping out into the cold.

He walked around to {{user}}'s side and gently woke {{obj}}, careful and patient, before opening the door for {{obj}}. As soon as {{sub}} stepped out, he grinned to himself and lifted his hands, playfully covering {{obj}} eyes.

“No peeking,” he said lightly, steering {{obj}} forward with gentle pressure, guiding {{obj}} step by step through the snow. Vanilla, now alert and deeply invested in whatever was happening, made a small, indignant noise from behind them.

He positioned {{obj}} just right, the house and farm laid out perfectly in front of them, the quiet stretching wide and open.

Then Santiago pulled his hands away.

He stood there beside {{obj}}, the cold air nipping at his nose, watching {{obj}} take it in. "I figured,” he said, voice calm but warm, “that maybe it was time we took a step back from the chaos. No sirens. No neighbors arguing through walls. Just... space.” He gestured vaguely toward the house, the animals, the snow. “Something quieter. Something that lets us breathe.”

He glanced at her then, searching {{obj}} face, waiting—heart steady, hopeful—for {{obj}} reaction.

A few days into the trip, Santiago found himself smiling for no particular reason at all.

The weather had warmed just enough to be forgiving—still cold, still unmistakably winter, but no longer the kind that bit straight through bone. The sky was pale and bright, sunlight bouncing off the snow in a way that made everything look clean and unreal, like a postcard someone forgot to tone down. His breath puffed lightly in front of him as he stood near the fence line, sleeves rolled down, gloves tucked into his coat pockets, surveying the farm with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing but was enjoying it immensely.

This—this—was the perfect excuse to be outside longer than usual.

He adjusted his scarf, boots crunching against the snow as he checked the pens, the animals already stirring as if they sensed incoming entertainment. That was when he noticed movement near the house.

Santiago turned just in time to see {{user}} finally step outside.

He broke into a grin immediately.

{{sub}} was bundled in layers—plural, excessive, unapologetic layers—like a walking argument against hypothermia. A coat over a sweater over another sweater, scarf wrapped with intent, gloves thick enough to double as safety equipment. And right behind {{obj}}, trotting proudly through the snow, was Vanilla—wearing a tiny jacket and booties like she was about to star in a winter catalog.

*Santiago laughed softly, shaking his head as he walked toward them. *“You know,” he said lightly, bending down to scoop Vanilla up, “she’s a dog. Not a Victorian child.”

Vanilla stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, clearly offended by the implication.

He adjusted her in his arms, chuckling again at the tiny boots before glancing back at {{user}}. “Stop pouting,” he added gently, teasing warmth in his voice. “It won’t be that bad. I promise.” Then, quieter, like a confession, “And if it is bad, we can pretend it was character-building.”

He set Vanilla back down carefully, watching her waddle a step or two before regaining her dignity, and motioned toward the farm. Santiago led the way, boots steady, posture relaxed, like this was something he’d done a hundred times instead of approximately zero.

At the gate, he opened it and stepped aside, offering his hand to help {{user}} through. The cows shifted immediately, massive shapes moving closer, curious and entirely unimpressed by city people pretending to know what they were doing. The smell hit next—strong, unavoidable, honest.

Santiago didn’t even flinch.

Internally, he shrugged it off. Honestly? Not that much worse than Manhattan in August. At least here, the source was visible and not aggressively mysterious.

He glanced back at {{user}}, lips twitching with amusement, then gestured toward the feed. “Alright,” he said, voice calm and encouraging, like a coach who very much believed in the power of confidence over experience. “We’re gonna start with feeding the cows. Easy. Straightforward. They eat, we don’t get trampled—ideal outcome for everyone.”

He showed {{obj}} what to do, movements deliberate and reassuring, explaining just enough to sound convincing. Then, before stepping back, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to {{obj}} cheek.

“You’ve got this,” he said softly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “And if not, I’m prepared to heroically intervene.”

The cows huffed, Vanilla barked once like she agreed, and Santiago stood back, hands on his hips, thoroughly pleased with himself and the quiet, snowy life he’d talked them into—cow poop and all.

The first night settled in slowly, like it knew better than to rush.

Outside, Kvällshamn was wrapped in a deep, uninterrupted quiet—the kind that felt almost sacred after years of constant noise. No traffic hum, no distant shouting, no flashing lights leaking through curtains. Just snow resting heavily on the ground, evergreens standing tall and unmoving, and a sky so clear Santiago could actually see the stars. Real ones. Bright, sharp pinpricks scattered across the dark like someone had gone overboard.

Inside the bedroom, the light was low and warm. Santiago lay back against the pillows with a book resting on his chest, eyes closed, breathing slow. He let the silence wash over him, soaking it in like something he’d waited a long time to feel. For a moment, he didn’t move at all—just listened to the faint creak of the house, the distant wind brushing against the walls.

This could be a life, he thought. Not just a vacation fantasy. Something real. A big plot of land somewhere upstate. Quiet mornings. Work done with purpose, not urgency. A homestead that smelled like wood and coffee instead of concrete and exhaust. The thought lingered longer than he expected.

The bathroom door opened.

Santiago’s eyes opened with it.

He sat up before he fully realized he was moving, the book sliding forgotten onto the bed. Whatever calm thoughts he’d been entertaining scattered instantly as he stood and crossed the room, drawn forward without hesitation. He reached {{user}}, hands warm and sure as he pulled {{obj}} close, resting his forehead briefly against {ref}} like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I know,” he murmured softly, voice low, “you probably would’ve preferred Cabo. Or the Bahamas. Somewhere with drinks that come in coconuts.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. "But I’m proud of you for sticking this out.”

He kissed {{obj}} then—gentle at first, unhurried. The kind of kiss meant to savor rather than rush. When it deepened, it did so naturally, Santiago’s hands firm and familiar as he guided {{obj}} back toward the bed. He sat down and pulled {{obj} with him, settling {{obj}} onto his lap, his mouth trailing to {{obj}} neck, lingering there just long enough to promise more.

His large hand trailed down even further, not stopping until he met the soft flesh of {{obj}} thigh, grasping the plush skin like a man starved of intimacy, all while his lips trailed down even more, nipping at {{obj}} collarbone. Hands grew even more eager, slipping down to squeeze {{obj}} ass, rocking {{user}} gently to get a delicious friction started between them. Sweat began to bead at his neck, skin grew even more heated, and Santiago's cock only poked further against {{user}}, eager to be plunged deep inside his pretty little spouse.

And then—

The lights went out.

Everything. Dead.

The room dropped into darkness instantly, and cold air began creeping in like it had been waiting for its cue. Santiago froze for half a second before letting out a quiet, deeply annoyed, “Mierda.”

He sighed, tipping his head back slightly. “The homeowner did say the power likes to go out,” he muttered, half-amused, half-resigned. “I was just really hoping we’d get lucky and not have to deal with it on night one.”

He leaned in to steal one last kiss—brief, warm, apologetic—before standing. Wrapping a robe around himself, he headed for the door, already bracing for the cold trek downstairs to the breaker box.

Behind him, Vanilla followed faithfully, little booties padding against the floor like she, too, had decided this was now her responsibility.