10 Romantic Bedtime Stories For Long Distance Boyfriend

Being miles apart from the one you love isn’t easy, especially when the day winds down. All you want is to curl up beside him. Whether it’s different time zones or busy schedules keeping you apart, a heartfelt bedtime story can bring you closer, even from afar. These 10 romantic bedtime stories will soothe the ache of distance, spark connection, and wrap your long-distance boyfriend in comfort and love.

Story No. 1: “The Lighthouse Between Us”

A quiet seaside village tucked into a cove where the waves whisper secrets to the shore. It’s late evening, the sky blushes with fading rose and lavender hues, and the sea reflects the stars as they bloom one by one. A solitary lighthouse stands at the cliff’s edge, its warm, golden beam sweeping over the water, steady and loyal.

Lina and Jace have loved each other across oceans, time zones, and sleepy video calls. They once spent a weekend by the sea, just the two of them, chasing seagulls and sharing an absurd number of pancakes. That memory remains their favourite, a golden thread they both tug on when the distance feels too vast.

One starlit night, Jace finds himself in a dream that feels all too real. He stands on the cliff beside the lighthouse, the one from their seaside memory, only it’s glowing warmer than he remembers. The waves crash below, but they don’t roar; they hum a lullaby. He’s drawn toward the lighthouse door, which swings open gently as if it’s been waiting for him.

Inside, a spiral staircase winds upward, lit by floating candles that flicker like old memories. With every step, he hears Lina’s laughter, the way it spills out when she talks about their pancake “stack-off,” the way her voice softens when she says his name like a secret only she knows.

At the top of the tower, there’s a cozy room filled with soft cushions and the scent of sea salt and vanilla. Lina is there, not a ghost, not a memory, but fully her. She smiles without surprise, as if she always knew he’d find his way back here.

They sit together, legs tangled, sharing stories from their time apart, as if they’re catching up after a long day, not weeks or months. She pulls out an old Polaroid from their seaside trip, the one where he wore that ridiculous oversized sunhat just to make her laugh. She’s kept it in her pocket every day since.

The soft creak of the wooden stairs, the salty breeze curling through the open windows, and the warm light from the lantern casting golden shadows on the walls. The scent of vanilla and ocean air, the gentle hum of waves below, and the cozy texture of hand-knit blankets wrapped around them. There’s hot cocoa, rich, creamy, just like they made that rainy afternoon they stayed in.

As they sit beneath the glow of the lighthouse lamp, Lina reaches into a pocket and reveals a tiny bottle filled with sand from the beach they once walked together. “I’ve kept this since that day,” she says, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Whenever I miss you, I imagine the grains slipping through your fingers too, like we’re holding hands across time.”

She gently presses the bottle into his palm. “You’re never really far,” she whispers, “You’re in my mornings, my dreams, my heartbeat.”

Just before dawn, Jace feels sleep pulling him deeper. Lina kisses his forehead, the kind of kiss that says everything words can’t. When he wakes up in his bed, the lighthouse is gone, but his hand still holds something warm.

On his nightstand sits the Polaroid, the one he thought he’d lost. Folded underneath is a note: “You found me in the dream. I’m always here. Love you more than pancakes.”

Sweetheart,
Even when we’re apart, I’m right there beside you, in every memory, every dream, every quiet heartbeat. Close your eyes and let the waves bring you to me. You’re loved more than you know. Sleep well, my love. I’m holding you in all the ways I can.
Goodnight.

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Story No. 2: “The Star Between Our Hands”

A soft, celestial dreamscape where the sky stretches like velvet and stars hang low enough to touch. Time feels fluid here, slow, gentle, unhurried. It’s always just past twilight, with a golden hush in the air and fireflies drifting like floating wishes. Somewhere between worlds, a small, magical observatory rests on a hilltop, its windows glowing with amber light.

Emery and Kai are soul-connected, hearts tethered through messages, laughter, and shared silence. Though miles apart, they hold tight to their nightly ritual: looking up at the stars and finding the same one, their “wish-star,” where they imagine placing a kiss for the other. The joke started when they argued (lightheartedly) over which constellation looked more like a dinosaur; it never really ended.

One night, Kai finds himself standing at the base of the hill, barefoot on dew-kissed grass, drawn by a soft hum in the air. Above him, the observatory glows like a lantern in the night. As he walks up the path, his name echoes faintly, not loudly, but lovingly, as though the wind carries it in Emery’s voice.

Inside the observatory, time bends. Star charts float midair, and constellations dance across the ceiling. In the centre of the room sits a telescope made of silver and wood, carved with tiny stars. Next to it is a cup of warm tea, his favorite, with honey just the way Emery remembers.

He peers through the telescope and gasps. The sky is alive, not just with stars, but with moments: a replay of their best nights talking until dawn, the first time she told him she loved him, the time he sent a photo of his attempt at making her favorite snack, and it turned out… terrifying. Each memory twinkles in the sky like a living constellation.

And then he sees her, Emery, just outside the dome, her hair catching starlight, her eyes reflecting galaxies. She reaches out, and he meets her halfway, their hands nearly touching through the glass.

The scent of lavender tea and aged paper, the feel of worn wood under his palms, the hush of the night broken only by the gentle rustle of star maps turning themselves. Emery’s laugh drifts in like a song he’s almost forgotten, warm and melodic. The stars pulse softly, like heartbeats in the sky.

Emery opens a small star-shaped locket and shows him what’s inside: a speck of light. “I caught this for you,” she says. “A real star. It’s the one we wish on. It’s ours now.” She opens his palm and places the locket there. “Even when you can’t see me, this glows with everything I feel for you.”

Then she traces his palm with her fingertip and says, “Every night, I hold my hand up to the sky. Hoping you do too. Hoping you feel this.”

As Kai wakes in his bed, the soft morning light filters in. He’s not sure if it was all a dream, but something small and metallic presses gently into his hand. He opens it: his fingers curve around a star-shaped locket, warm to the touch, faintly glowing.

He smiles, knowing she is there. Maybe still is.

My love,
I hope tonight you dreamed of stars and found me among them. I’m always reaching for your hand, even when we’re apart. Let’s wish on our star again tonight, same time, same love.
Sleep peacefully, my heart. You are held. Always.
Sweet dreams.

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Story No. 3: “The Pancake Moon”

A dreamy mountain cabin nestled deep in a quiet forest, just as autumn begins to paint the trees with gold and ember hues. The moon hangs huge and luminous overhead, casting silver light over the pine trees. A fire crackles in the hearth, and the scent of cinnamon and maple lingers in the air.

Ari and Noah once escaped to a cabin in the woods for a long weekend,a perfect getaway filled with lazy mornings, foggy hikes, and a very heated debate over who could make the best pancakes. (Ari insists theirs were fluffier; Noah claims superior syrup ratios.) It became their favourite inside joke: “Who made the Pancake Moon?” they’d ask when the full moon rose round and golden.

Noah finds himself back in that cabin, though he doesn’t remember how he got there. The fire is lit, the air smells like cinnamon, and a warm mug sits waiting for him by the window. Outside, the moon hangs impossibly close, low over the mountains, glowing like a giant golden pancake.

He steps onto the porch and sees her, Ari, wrapped in a blanket, smiling in that way that says she’s been waiting just for him. “Looks like someone finally admitted my pancakes were fluffier,” she teases, nodding toward the moon.

They sit together, toes brushing under the blanket, watching the moon slowly rise higher. Around them, the forest is silent, save for the whisper of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. It’s as though time itself has paused so they can just be, two hearts in sync, two souls resting in each other’s warmth.

The warmth of the crackling fire against their skin, the faint chill of mountain air on their cheeks, and the soft texture of the knit blanket shared between them. The rich, sweet aroma of pancakes and maple syrup drifted from the cabin. The way the moonlight dapples through trees, soft and silver like brushed silk. Steam curling from the mugs in their hands, tasting like chai and childhood.

Ari reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded napkin, the one Noah doodled on that morning in the cabin. It’s creased, a little worn, but the drawing is still there: two pancakes holding hands, with a tiny moon above them and the words “Always the fluffiest with you.”

She laughs softly. “I kept it,” she says. “Because you didn’t just make pancakes, you made me feel at home.”

She places the napkin in his hand, and when their fingers touch, something warm pulses between them. A shared truth: they are always reaching, always returning, always holding on.

As dawn gently pushes back the darkness, Noah stirs in his real-life bed, the ache of distance still present, but softened. On his nightstand sits a folded napkin he swears he didn’t leave there. Same doodle. Same words.

And a message written beneath in fresh ink: “Same moon tonight. I’ll be looking up. Love you more than pancakes.”

Hey, sweetheart,
I know the bed feels too big without me, and mornings are quieter than they should be. But I’m here, folded into your dreams, tucked between your thoughts, and laughing every time the Pancake Moon rises.
Sleep soft tonight. I love you more than fluff and syrup. Always.
Goodnight, my heart.

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Story No.4: “The Bridge That Waited”

A dreamlike realm called Lysera, where the sky glows in shifting hues of indigo and gold, and the stars drift lazily like water lanterns. Hidden deep in a lush, whispering forest is an ancient floating bridge, The Bridge That Waited, only visible to two hearts longing for each other. It appears only once each night, for those brave enough to love across distance.

Callen and Rhea are bound by something deeper than time,soul-connected across a long and patient love. Though separated by realms (or, more practically, countries and flight delays), they find each other in dreams, always meeting at the bridge. Their shared phrase: “Meet me halfway.” It’s a promise, a ritual, and a spell all in one.

Tonight, Callen feels the world grow quiet around him, like it does just before a dream begins. He finds himself standing at the edge of a glimmering lake, stars reflecting in its stillness. Before him, the floating bridge appears, made of mist and moonlight, stretching far into the unknown.

He hears soft footsteps on the other side. It’s her, Rhea, walking slowly toward him, her smile lit by the glow of fireflies and stardust. “You made it,” she whispers, as though she never doubted he would.

They walk toward each other, meeting in the center of the bridge. No rush. No fear. Just the deep, aching relief of being close again. Around them, the sky blooms with auroras, and the water below hums with the sound of shared memories,late-night calls, laughter through tears, the first time he told her she felt like home.

They sit together on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling into the stars below.

The soft, cool shimmer of the bridge beneath their feet, like silk and moonlight. The scent of midnight blossoms, floral, sweet, and just a little wild. The warm pressure of her hand slipping into his. The echo of their laughter blended with the gentle rush of starlit wind. The taste of memory on the air, faintly like their favorite dessert: vanilla with sea salt caramel.

Rhea reveals a tiny charm she wears around her neck: a compass, enchanted to point not north, but always toward Callen. She presses it into his palm, and the needle spins wildly before settling straight toward his heart.

“It only points to you,” she says. “Even when I don’t know where I am… I always know where you are.”

Then she gently places her forehead against his, and they sit in silence, the kind that says more than words ever could.

As the dream fades and morning stretches across the real world, Callen wakes in his bed. The room is quiet, but something feels different; his pillow smells faintly of midnight blossoms, and in his hand is a small silver charm.

The compass.

It still points to her.

My love,
Tonight, like every night, I met you on the bridge that waits only for us. You are never out of reach, not really. I’ll find you in dreams, in laughter, in quiet moments that feel like home. Meet me halfway again tomorrow.
Sleep deeply, and know this:
The bridge always appears when you need me. I always come.
Goodnight, heart of mine.

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Story No.5: “The House with the Yellow Door”

A quiet little town tucked between rolling hills and sleepy lakes, where the seasons come gently and neighbours wave from their porches. Nestled at the end of a tree-lined lane is a small house with a bright yellow door, sunny, cheerful, and unmistakably yours. The sky is lavender with the last breath of sunset, and the house glows from within, a warm hearth in a cool world.

Lena and River have always talked about their “someday house.” A place with a reading nook, a cozy kitchen, and a silly front door colour they’d bicker playfully about (she wanted coral, he wanted sunshine yellow, they compromised on yellow, eventually). Though they’re far apart now, this vision has always tethered them, a shared dream where love lives in every corner.

Tonight, River dreams of the house with the yellow door again. He opens it and walks into a life they haven’t lived yet, but it feels more familiar than his heartbeat.

There’s a soft record playing, their song. The kitchen smells like something Lena baked (with too much cinnamon, like always). A sleepy dog dozes near the fire (they finally got that rescue mutt they joked about naming “Waffles”). Light pours in from every window, soft and honey-colored.

She’s there, Lena, curled in the reading nook in oversized socks, looking up like she knew he was coming. “You took your time,” she says, teasing, but her smile is all welcome.

He walks over and kisses the top of her head. “Had to make sure the mailbox was still crooked.”

They sit together, knees touching, hands finding each other like magnets. Outside, fireflies blink lazily across the yard. Inside, it feels like home has finally exhaled.

The creak of old wooden floors beneath socked feet, the warmth of a quilt that smells like fresh laundry and vanilla, the rich scent of cinnamon scones and black tea, the soft hum of a record spinning, the golden light soaking into everything. The feeling of peace tucked into corners, like nothing is urgent, and everything is already okay.

Lena pulls out a small box from the side table. Inside is a stack of postcards, each one a memory they haven’t lived yet. “I write to our future,” she says. “Every time I miss you.”

She reads one aloud: “Today, we painted the bathroom and got more paint on each other than on the walls. You kissed a blue streak off my cheek and said we made a masterpiece.”

River laughs, eyes stinging in that quiet way. “That does sound like us.”

She places the postcard in his hand. “Keep it. For when it feels far.”

River wakes slowly, the dream lingering like the smell of cinnamon. On his desk, under a pile of receipts, is a postcard he doesn’t remember putting there.

It reads: “The yellow door is always open. Come home soon.”

And in the corner: Love, your favorite paint-streaked girl.

Hey, future roommate,
I dreamed of our little house again. The one with the yellow door and the squeaky floor and all the quiet mornings waiting for us. I know we’re not there yet, but we’re on the way. Sleep well tonight, I’ll meet you in the kitchen for tea and tomorrow’s dream.
Goodnight, my home

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Story No.6: “Passport to You”

A dreamscape that changes with every blink, a surreal journey through glowing cities and hidden corners of the world. One night, it’s the misty canals of Venice lit by lanterns; the next, a quiet rooftop in Tokyo under neon stars. But no matter the place, there’s always one constant: a small café table, set for two, where time stops just for them.

Juno and Elian are long-distance lovers with adventurous hearts. When they first started dating, they made a shared list of “someday” destinations, Paris, Kyoto, Marrakesh, Reykjavik, dreaming up what they’d do in each place. In reality, time zones keep them apart. But in dreams? They travel the world together, passport-free, with no delays.

Their private phrase: “See you somewhere new tonight.”

Elian dreams of train tracks humming softly beneath his feet. He’s holding a travel journal, stamped with golden stars. The page glows faintly: “Tonight: Lisbon.” He smiles.

Moments later, he’s standing in the narrow cobbled alleyways of a moonlit Portuguese neighborhood, guided by guitar music and the smell of pastel de nata. He turns a corner, and there she is, Juno, sitting at their café table under a string of paper lanterns.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she says. “I got distracted by a street cat. It looked like it wanted to come with us.”

They laugh, and the world around them blurs into magic. She hands him a cup of espresso and a slice of something sweet. They sit close, legs brushing, hands finding each other like always.

Each dream is a new city, a new café table, the same love. One night, they dance in Buenos Aires, barefoot on tile. Another, they paint stars on a rooftop in Seoul. Always side by side.

The warm breeze of Lisbon night air, scented with roasted almonds and stone. The grit of cobblestone under his feet, the delicate crumble of pastry between his fingers. The soft clink of tiny cups, the distant music of fado singers. Her fingers were still warm from her coffee cup, brushing his cheek like a promise.

Juno opens her travel journal and shows him a drawing she’s added, every café table they’ve dreamed together, in every city. “I keep them all,” she says. “It’s our atlas of love.”

She tears out a page and hands it to him: tonight’s table, sketched under a string of lights. At the bottom, she’s written: “Distance is just geography. You’re already here.”

Elian wakes in the soft hush of early morning, a smile lingering on his lips. On his nightstand, his travel notebook sits open, and there, in his handwriting, he doesn’t remember writing, is the sketch from the dream.

At the bottom: “See you in Prague tomorrow night?”

My love,
No map can show the path between our hearts, it’s carved by longing, stitched by laughter, and walked in dreams. Wherever you go, I’ll meet you there. Let’s never stop exploring.
Close your eyes. I’m already packing our bags.
Goodnight, globetrotter.

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Story No.7: “The Rain Room”

A quiet Sunday afternoon in your future home, a small, sun-dappled space tucked beneath tall trees, where windows stretch wide and the roof sings when it rains. It’s the kind of day where the sky stays grey, the kettle stays warm, and the world slows down enough to breathe. Rain taps gently against the glass, and the whole house feels wrapped in a blanket.

Mira and Ezra now live the dream they built piece by piece, after years of distance, calls that ran past midnight, and countdowns on calendar apps. They finally share the same time zone, the same mornings, and the same roof. Rainy days are their favorite. They call their living room The Rain Room, because it’s where they always end up, curled together while the sky weeps softly outside.

Their inside joke? Whenever it rains, they act as if it’s a sacred holiday: “Happy Rain Day.”

It begins just as it always does: the soft drumming of raindrops on the roof, the kettle letting out a polite little sigh, and the distant rumble of thunder like a sleepy stretch.

Ezra stands barefoot in the kitchen, heating milk and cinnamon. Mira appears in one of his oversized sweatshirts, socks mismatched, hair still pillow-fluffed. They don’t need to speak. They just know. Rain Day.

They carry their drinks into the living room, The Rain Room, where blankets already wait and the windows blur into watercolour. They curl into the couch, legs entangled, Mira’s toes tucked beneath Ezra’s knees. The world outside fades, leaving just the rhythm of the rain and the heartbeat of their quiet together.

They read a little. Doze a little. Talk about everything and nothing.

Later, they bake cookies badly. One comes out shaped like a dinosaur by accident. It becomes their new mascot. They named it Sir Crumbles.

The earthy scent of rain on warm wood, the sweetness of cinnamon in the air, the softness of fleece blankets and warm ceramic mugs against their palms. The feel of cool window glass under fingertips, of toes brushing beneath throw blankets. The gentle hum of lo-fi music playing low, mingling with the steady fall of rain outside.

As dusk settles and the rain deepens into a lullaby, Ezra pulls something from behind the cushion,a folded paper envelope. Inside is a letter he wrote during their long-distance days, never sent.

He reads it aloud. It’s full of longing and hope. At the end, he’d written: “Someday it’ll rain, and you’ll be here. I won’t need to imagine it anymore. We’ll make cinnamon tea, and everything will feel like home.”

Mira’s eyes glisten. She leans over and kisses him slowly, softly. “You kept the letter,” she whispers.

“You made it true,” he replies.

As the storm settles into a steady whisper, they fall asleep in the Rain Room, limbs entwined, with the cookie tray still warm on the coffee table and their mugs half-finished. The rain keeps time outside as they drift, safe, held, whole.

My heart,
One day, this will be our Rain Room. We’ll drink tea, wear soft things, and let the rain play our song. Until then, close your eyes and imagine me beside you, toes cold, stealing your blanket.
Happy Rain Day.
Sleep warm, my love.

Story No.8: “The Morning We Forgot the Clock”

A sunlit bedroom wrapped in linen sheets and weekend stillness. Light filters in through gauzy curtains, turning everything gold. Outside, the world hums softly, birdsong, the occasional breeze, but inside, time has loosened its grip. It’s a Sunday with no plans, no alarms, no urgency. Just two people wrapped around each other, in a room that smells like sunlight and skin and something baking downstairs.

Nia and Theo are no longer living in countdowns or watching clocks tick toward the next call. They’re finally here, together. The early days of distance still live in their memories: sleepy video chats, longing so deep it ached, and the simple, soul-saving ritual of saying “Good morning” even when the mornings didn’t match.

Now, every Sunday is a little celebration of that promise fulfilled.

Nia wakes first, her cheek pressed against Theo’s shoulder, the sheets a tangled mess of warmth and limbs. The sun is soft and slow, stretching over the hardwood floor and the books stacked beside the bed.

She doesn’t move.

Neither does he.

Because the best part of these Sundays is that they don’t have to move. Not yet.

Theo blinks awake a moment later and smiles without opening his eyes. “What time is it?” he murmurs.

Nia presses a kiss to his jaw. “Does it matter?”

They lie there like that, half-asleep, half in love, for a long time. They talk in whispers. About dreams and breakfast. About the little things they’ll never take for granted: holding hands in the morning, brushing their teeth side by side, coffee made by someone else’s hands.

Eventually, they get hungry, but not enough to leave the bed. So they compromise: toast from the nightstand stash (they always keep snacks), and coffee in mismatched mugs brought up earlier by one of them, neither remembers who. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is this: his laugh against her shoulder. Her breath was soft in his hair. On a Sunday, they can stay in forever.

The crisp texture of cotton sheets warmed by shared sleep. The faint scent of roasted coffee and morning skin. The softness of his thumb tracing circles on her back. The low, comforting creak of the bed when she shifts. The golden light spilling across their pillows. A buttery crumb from the toast sticks to his chin, which she brushes off with a kiss.

Theo reaches under the pillow and pulls out a tiny note, handwritten, folded small.

He’d tucked it there the night before, just in case he woke first.

It reads:
“This is my favorite version of us. No plans. No noise. Just you, and this morning, and the fact that we finally made it here.”

Nia smiles and tucks the note into the book on her nightstand, the one where she keeps every love note he’s ever given her.

The world outside keeps spinning, cars pass, phones buzz, somewhere a bakery opens its doors, but in that room, time is suspended. They drift back into a light, shared nap, their breathing synced.

And when they wake again, it’s still Sunday.

Still them.

Still here.

Hey love,
I wish we were in our Sunday bed right now, wrapped in blankets, forgetting what time it is, stealing toast crumbs and slow kisses. But until we get there, close your eyes and pretend I’m next to you, toes cold, hogging the pillows.
Let the world wait. I’ll meet you in the morning.
Sleep easy, sweetheart.

Story No.9: “The Sea Between Stars”

A gently rocking sailboat named Second Wind, anchored in a hidden cove where the ocean is quiet and the sky is deep navy, dotted with stars. It’s warm, the air smelling like salt and citrus, and the only sounds are the creak of the mast and the soft splash of water against the hull. This is where the world ends, and where their world begins.

Isla and Rowan always dreamed of disappearing for a while, no deadlines, no messages, just the sea and each other. Back when they were apart, they used to send each other photos of old boats and say, “One day, this’ll be us.” Now, it is. The dream has a name, white sails, and a hammock just big enough for two.

Their favorite phrase: “Let’s drift.”
It means: Let’s let go. Let’s be here. Let’s stay as long as we want.

Tonight, they’ve just finished dinner, grilled fish, a little charred, and mango slices sticky on their fingers. They sit on the deck under a blanket, watching the stars emerge one by one.

Rowan plays a soft song on the tiny travel guitar Isla insisted they bring, even though it’s always out of tune. She hums along, terribly off-key, and he wouldn’t change a note of it.

They talk about everything and nothing: how far they’ve come, the islands still ahead, what the stars might be whispering. Isla leans her head against his shoulder. “Do you think we’ll ever live on land again?”

“Only if the view’s still this good.”

There’s no rush. No port to reach. Just the promise of tomorrow’s breeze, and each other.

The warmth of sun-faded wood under bare feet, the sharp, clean smell of salt and citrus oil on skin. The slight sway of the boat, soothing as a cradle. The stickiness of mango on their fingertips, the cool breath of ocean air on their cheeks. The soft hum of distant waves meeting the hull, and the faint jingle of wind through the rigging.

Isla takes out a folded piece of paper, worn, stained, edges curled. It’s the very first email Rowan ever sent her, printed out and kept all this time.

“You wrote,” she reads aloud, “If I could, I’d build a boat and sail to you.”

She presses it into his hand. “So I thought it was only fair you get this back. You already did it.”

He folds it and tucks it into the little leather notebook where he keeps their route maps. Not for navigation. Just to remember how far love can go.

That night, they fall asleep in the hammock under a sky so clear it doesn’t seem real. Her hand on his chest, his arm around her waist, rocking gently with the sea.

Somewhere out there, the world spins with its noise and rush.

But Second Wind floats in a different kind of time, measured only by stars and heartbeats.

My anchor,
One day, we’ll set sail and never look back. Just you, me, a boat with a funny name, and the stars above. Until then, close your eyes and drift with me. Let the waves take us far, where missing you doesn’t ache, it sings.
Sleep steady, captain. I’m right here.

Story No.10: “The Cabin That Found Us”

A small, snow-draped cabin nestled deep in an evergreen forest, hidden from maps and memory. The world outside is hushed beneath thick layers of snow, and the stars shimmer above like frost-sugar on dark velvet. Inside, firelight dances across wooden walls, the air is scented with pine and cocoa, and time feels enchanted, slowed down, held close.

Eli and Maeve once promised that one day, when everything felt too loud, they’d “escape into the snow.” They imagined a hidden cabin that would find them, rather than the other way around. Now, after all the waiting, all the missing, and the miles between them, they’re finally here, where everything is still, and love speaks louder than words.

Their secret phrase? “We belong to the quiet.”
It means: Even when the world moves fast, we don’t have to.

Snow falls softly as they arrive, heavy, slow flakes that glitter under the lantern light. Eli carries in firewood, cheeks pink with cold. Maeve’s already inside, wrapped in a knit blanket, two mugs of cocoa steaming on the windowsill.

They sit together on a thick rug by the fireplace, watching the flames curl and stretch. Outside, the wind whistles like an old song; inside, everything is warm.

They read aloud from an old storybook they found in the cabin, one about two travellers who were snowed in for a hundred years, waking only when the snow remembered how to melt. They laugh, wondering if they could live like that. Maybe they already do.

Later, they pull on boots and coats to walk outside. The snow glows blue in the moonlight, soft and untouched. Maeve throws the first snowball. Eli declares war. They truce after one ends up in his hood, and she kisses his nose.

They stand hand in hand under a pine tree heavy with snow. She whispers, “You were worth the storm.”

The warmth of wool socks and fire-kissed skin, the scent of pine sap and melted marshmallows, the rough texture of knit blankets against bare arms. The crackle of burning wood, the muffled silence of snow blanketing the world outside. The icy tingle of snowflakes caught in hair, the taste of cinnamon in cocoa, the softness of her laugh in the cold.

Before bed, Eli pulls out a small jar with paper folded inside, his old snow-day wish list. Maeve unfolds one: “Find her in the snow, kiss her under starlight, and build a life from the hush.”

She doesn’t speak. Just takes his face in her hands and kisses him like she’s sealing a spell.

They curl together under a mountain of quilts, firelight flickering across their faces, snow falling in a world that no longer needs them tonight.

As they sleep, the snow continues to fall, tucking the cabin in like a secret. The world forgets time for a while, and so do they. There is no need to be anywhere else.

And in the morning, the snow outside glows golden, and the fire hasn’t gone out.My snowstorm,
When the world feels too fast, close your eyes and find me in our winter cabin. I’ll be waiting with cocoa, a blanket, and the quiet that only you and I understand. We belong to the hush, to the warmth, to each other.
Sleep warm, my love.