They stayed there for hours, wrapped in each other and the blanket, trading stories of their past and dreams for their future—a house with a studio for her, a garden for him, maybe a child with her eyes and his stubbornness. The cold nipped at their noses, but their laughter kept it at bay. Priya sketched the scene in her mind, vowing to draw it later: two figures silhouetted against a sky ablaze with color, their love a bridge between continents

In the quiet town of Jasper, nestled among the snow-dusted peaks of Alberta, Arjun and Priya found a love as steady as the Rockies themselves. They had arrived in Canada two years ago, fresh from Mumbai, their hearts brimming with dreams and a touch of homesickness. Arjun, with his sharp engineering mind, had landed a job at a renewable energy firm, while Priya, a budding illustrator, took freelance gigs, her sketches capturing the wild beauty of their new home. At twenty-five, they were a modern Indian couple—rooted in tradition yet eager to carve their own path in this vast, chilly province.

Their love had begun back in India, a slow burn of stolen glances at a college library, fueled by late-night chai runs and whispered promises. Marriage had followed, a small affair with garlands and turmeric-stained hands, before Canada called them to its shores. Now, in their cozy apartment overlooking Jasper’s frozen lakes, they were learning to balance the old with the new—spices simmering on the stove while snow piled up outside.

It was a crisp February evening when Arjun decided to surprise Priya. She’d been hunched over her sketchpad all week, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she drew scenes of Punjab’s mustard fields meeting Alberta’s pine forests. He adored her passion, the way her brow furrowed when she worked, but he missed her laughter, the way it danced in the air like temple bells. So, he planned a night to pull her from her art and back into his arms.

“Priya,” he called, poking his head into their living room, where she sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by pencils. “Put that down for a bit. We’re going out.”

She looked up, her almond eyes narrowing playfully. “Out? It’s minus twenty, Arjun. Are you trying to turn me into a popsicle?”

He grinned, holding up her parka. “Trust me, jaan. You’ll thank me later.”

Reluctantly, she bundled up, her petite frame disappearing under layers of wool and down. They stepped into the night, the sky a deep indigo streaked with stars. Arjun led her to their beat-up Toyota, the heater rattling to life as they drove out of town. Priya pressed her mittened hands to the window, watching the trees blur past, curiosity tugging at her lips.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her breath fogging the glass.

“You’ll see,” he said, his voice warm with mischief.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to a clearing near Maligne Lake. The world was silent, save for the crunch of snow under their boots. Arjun grabbed a blanket and a thermos from the trunk, then took her hand, guiding her to a spot where the ice stretched out like a mirror beneath the heavens. Above them, the northern lights began to ripple—green and violet ribbons swaying across the sky.

Priya gasped, her breath catching. “Arjun… this is—”

“Magical, right?” He spread the blanket over a snowbank and pulled her down beside him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I read they’d be visible tonight. Thought it’d be our little adventure.”

She nestled into him, the cold forgotten as the aurora pulsed above. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, but her smile betrayed her delight. He poured steaming chai from the thermos—spiked with cardamom and cloves, just like her mother’s—and handed her a mug. The warmth seeped into her fingers, and for a moment, they were back in Mumbai, sipping tea on a monsoon-drenched balcony.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked softly, her gaze drifting from the lights to his face. “Home, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his thumb brushing her cheek. “The chaos, the heat, the way the streets smell after rain. But then I look at you, here, and I think… this is home now.”

Her heart fluttered, a familiar ache blooming beneath her ribs. She set her mug down and turned to him, her hands finding his beneath the blanket. “You’re too good at this, you know. Sweeping me off my feet.”

“Years of practice,” he teased, leaning closer until their foreheads touched. His breath was warm against her lips, and when he kissed her, it was slow and deliberate, like a promise etched in the snow. The northern lights flared brighter, as if celebrating their quiet moment.

They stayed there for hours, wrapped in each other and the blanket, trading stories of their past and dreams for their future—a house with a studio for her, a garden for him, maybe a child with her eyes and his stubbornness. The cold nipped at their noses, but their laughter kept it at bay. Priya sketched the scene in her mind, vowing to draw it later: two figures silhouetted against a sky ablaze with color, their love a bridge between continents.

As the lights faded and the night grew still, Arjun pulled her to her feet. “Ready to go back, my artist?”

She nodded, slipping her hand into his. “Only if you promise me more nights like this.”

“Always,” he said, and they walked back to the car, leaving footprints in the snow—proof of a love that thrived, even in the coldest corners of the world.