Snowstorm

A late-winter snowstorm forces Daniel and Carter into an unexpected collision, revealing the unspoken connection growing between them amidst shared tasks and quiet moments.

The wind ripped at the collar of my too-thin coat, forcing snow into the gap around my neck. It wasn't just falling; it was *horizontal*, a solid white sheet that blotted out the brick warehouses across the alley. Late winter in the city always felt like a cruel joke, a false promise of spring followed by this kind of bitter, unyielding cold. My bus had been twenty minutes late, then had to pull over on Portage, tires barely gripping the slush, until the driver just gave up and told us to find our own way. Which, for me, meant trudging these extra seven blocks, shoulders hunched, every step a minor battle against the accumulating powder. My canvas bag, usually light with a sketchbook and charcoal, felt like it contained rocks.

A muffled clang echoed from somewhere ahead, followed by a grunt. My head snapped up. Just a shadow, at first, wrestling with something large and dark near the service entrance of the old brick building where the workshop was held. It was the only building on the block with any lights on, a faint, yellowish glow spilling from a window on the second floor. The shadow shifted, then solidified into a person, struggling with what looked like a stack of… plywood? In this weather? He leaned against it, chest heaving, steam pluming from his mouth, his dark hair dusted white with snow. His hoodie was pulled up, but I recognized the broad set of his shoulders, the determined line of his jaw even from this distance. Carter.

Of all the people. Of course, it had to be Carter. My stomach did a tight little flip that had nothing to do with the cold. We’d spent weeks in a quiet orbit around each other – coffee refills at the gallery, passing glances on the 16 bus, silent approvals during gallery setups. Enough time for me to notice the subtle curl of his lips when he was genuinely amused, or the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was thinking hard. But never, not once, had we just… *collided* like this. Unscheduled. Unmediated. Just two cold, miserable guys in a snow-choked alley.

He looked up then, startled, his eyes, dark as river stones, locking onto mine. A faint flush, maybe from effort, maybe from surprise, crept up his neck, just visible beneath the edge of his hoodie. He looked less like the calm, collected Carter I knew from the gallery, and more like someone caught off guard, a bit raw. It was… unexpected. And weirdly compelling. I found myself holding my breath, the icy air scraping my lungs.

“Daniel?” His voice was a low rumble, a little rough from the cold, and I swear a shiver went down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. “What are you…?”

“Bus broke down,” I managed, my own voice thin and reedy. “Walking from Portage.” I gestured vaguely back the way I came, even though the snow was so thick I could barely see the end of the alley. “What are *you* doing out here?”

He let out a short, puff of a laugh, a little self-deprecating. “Spoken word performance tonight. Thought I could beat the storm, get these in before everything shut down.” He kicked lightly at the stack of plywood, maybe six sheets strapped together, thick and heavy. “Turns out, snow had other plans.” He grimaced, rubbing a gloved hand over his numb face. “Can’t get the dolly through this mess.”

“Need a hand?” The words were out before I’d even thought about them. My initial impulse was usually to duck, to avoid, to keep moving. But something about seeing Carter, usually so steady and capable, struggling in the biting cold… it shifted something in me. My fingers were already halfway numb, but the thought of him just standing there, alone, felt worse.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, those dark eyes scanning my face, a flicker of something unreadable in them. Then a slow, easy smile spread across his lips, and my chest felt suddenly, inexplicably warm. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze lingering. “Actually, yeah, I could use a hand.”

We grappled with the plywood, the rough edges scratching at my gloves even through the worn fabric. It was heavy, awkward, slick with melting snow. Our hands brushed more than once, his skin warm despite the cold, sending a jolt up my arm that made me suck in a sharp breath. He steadied the stack, his grip firm, and I could feel the heat radiating off him as we navigated the narrow alley, the faint smell of wet wool and something earthy, like fresh sawdust, clinging to him. We didn't talk much, just grunted with effort, the task demanding all our attention. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction from the buzzing awareness of his proximity.

Inside, the building was a chaotic balm. The air, thick with the smell of turpentine and old coffee, pressed in like a warm blanket. Heaters hummed a low, comforting thrum. Fading light bulbs, strung haphazardly from the ceiling, cast a yellow glow over tables piled high with clay, paint-splattered canvases, and various half-finished projects. Students, mostly younger than us, bustled around, laughing, talking, oblivious to the miniature blizzard raging just outside. It was a beautiful, messy kind of energy.

We leaned the plywood stack against a wall in a less-trafficked corner, letting it settle with a soft thud. My fingers throbbed, a welcome ache after the cold. I peeled off my gloves, my hands red and clumsy, and Carter watched me, a faint, unreadable smile on his face.

“Thanks, Daniel. Seriously. That would’ve been… a nightmare alone.” His voice was softer in the warmth, less rough. He took off his own gloves, tucking them into his pocket, his movements economical, practiced. His hands were strong, calloused, the nails clipped short. I found my gaze snagging on them for a second too long.

“No problem,” I mumbled, feeling suddenly awkward, my usual shield of sarcasm failing me. The ease of our collaboration in the cold had evaporated in the warmth, replaced by a different kind of tension. A quiet hum under my skin. We stood there for a moment, just breathing, the sounds of the workshop swirling around us, a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence settling between us.

Then he gestured to a thermos on a nearby table. “Want some hot chocolate? I brought extra.” He had a way of offering things, not demanding, just… making space. Like he was already anticipating my needs before I even knew them. It was disarming.

I nodded, a small smile finally breaking through. “Please.”

We found a couple of empty folding chairs near a window, the glass frosted over with intricate fern-like patterns. The hot chocolate was sweet, too sweet, but the warmth of the mug in my hands was a revelation. He talked about the spoken-word event, the poets, the nervous energy of performing. I told him about the portraiture workshop I was doing, the challenge of capturing a fleeting expression, the way charcoal felt in my fingers. Our conversation, clipped and practical moments before, softened, unspooled. The tension of the cold outside, the shock of our collision, melted into quiet, shared laughter over a clumsy artist’s model or a particularly bad line of poetry. It was easy, almost too easy, like we’d been doing this for years, talking about nothing and everything, the unspoken things hovering between the words like a tangible weight.

Later, much later, when the workshop was winding down and the poets were starting to trickle in, Carter turned to me. “Hey. Before you head out…” He gestured towards the frosted window. “Ever been on the river trail when it’s like this?”

I shook my head. “Too cold. Usually.”

He grinned, a flash of white against his darker skin. “Come on. Just for a bit.”

I didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The pull was too strong. I pulled my coat tighter, tugged my hat low, and followed him out a back door I hadn’t even noticed, down a set of icy steps, and onto a path that led straight to the riverbank. The city was muffled beneath snow, the sounds of traffic distant, indistinct. The air was still, cold and crisp, carrying the scent of frozen water and woodsmoke. The Red River, usually a murky brown, lay transformed, a vast, flat expanse of white, crisscrossed by faint, almost invisible tracks.

We walked for a while without speaking, the only sound the crunch of our boots on the packed snow. The streetlights, softened by the falling flakes, cast a diffuse, amber glow across the white landscape, making everything feel surreal, like a dream. Carter kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders a little hunched, but his gaze was steady, sweeping across the river. He seemed… at home here. More so than I’d ever seen him in the gallery, or on the bus, or even inside the warm art space.

“My grandma used to tell stories about this river,” he began, his voice quiet, almost lost in the vastness. He didn't look at me, just kept his gaze fixed on the distant shore. “How it carries everything. Memories. People. Generations. She said you could hear them, if you listened hard enough, in the ice cracking or the wind blowing off the bends.”

I listened, really listened. Not just to his words, but to the subtle rhythm of them, the way he paused, almost reverently, after each thought. I imagined his grandma’s voice, a soft, steady cadence, weaving tales of generations. It was a connection I hadn't known about him, this deep tie to history, to place. It wasn’t a mystical thing, not some old-world magic, but something grounded and real, a current running through him. A living memory.

“She said even when people left, when they moved away, a part of them always stayed here. In the current. In the soil. Like the river keeps a piece of everyone it touches.” He finally turned to me then, his eyes searching, a vulnerability in them I hadn’t seen before. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? About roots. About what holds you. And what you leave behind.”

My usual retort, my easy deflection, caught in my throat. I usually had a quip ready, a way to lighten the mood, to push serious conversations away. But with Carter, here, now, in the stillness of the snow-covered river, I found I had nothing. No defenses. Just an open space in my chest where his words settled, warm and heavy. I thought about my own haphazard journey, the constant urge to keep moving, to not put down roots too deeply, for fear of what might hold me down. I thought about the emptiness sometimes, the way a lack of roots felt like floating, untethered. He was talking about the weight of staying, but I felt the weight of *not* staying. The silence that followed was intimate, not empty. It was filled with unspoken questions, with the quiet hum of two different worlds brushing against each other, asking about belonging, about connection. About what it meant to truly be home.

Eventually, the cold bit too deep, and we turned back. The city lights, a blurry amber through the falling snow, seemed to beckon, to promise warmth and definition. He walked me to the corner of my street, the snow now falling softer, almost lazily, like individual flakes deciding where to land. We didn’t say much, just a quiet, knowing nod. And then he was gone, a dark shape swallowed by the falling snow, leaving me on the sidewalk, the chill seeping back into my bones, but a strange warmth blossoming in my chest.

I walked home, the city quiet around me, the streetlights burning like liquid amber in the dimming twilight. Each step crunched softly, a lonely sound in the hush. Carter’s words echoed in my mind, the quiet intensity of his voice on the river. *About what holds you. And what you leave behind.* My own life had felt like a string of temporary addresses, a collection of things I could pack up easily. But today… today felt different. My chest felt both pulled and unsettled. It was the unsettling feeling of a map being redrawn, of boundaries shifting without my permission. My life felt like it was about to diverge in ways I didn’t yet understand, pushed by an invisible current, and I knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified me, that Carter was already a part of it. A new landmark on a map I hadn’t known existed. And the thought, quiet and persistent, was that I didn’t know if I wanted to pack him up and leave him behind.