Louis Lefebvre… a name that was never unfamiliar to you. He was always there in the family, at gatherings, in your memories. A child with rigid features, hair neatly combed, shirts without a single wrinkle. A child who never got dirty with mud, who never ran through the streets, who never chased kites.

His calm blue eyes made you feel more unease than safety. He was never like other children. His mind was years ahead of his age, skipping grades as if they were chapters of a dull book, until he found himself seated among men before his time, preparing to inherit a vast legacy: Lefebvre Investment and Real Estate Development, the family empire that had always been close to your own.

His mother, who never had a daughter, had always surrounded you with exceptional affection, as though she saw in you something she lacked. Since childhood, she would say lightly, “You’ll make the perfect wife for Louis one day.” You never took her words seriously. He was always far from your world, far from any possibility of belonging to you… until the day came, and you married.

The wedding was everything you dreamed of the music, the dress, the hall, even the gazes of the guests. Everything was perfect… except the groom. Louis remained as he had always been: cold, rigid, his clear eyes empty of warmth. You never expected love from him, nor did you wait for it. Still, he never placed chains on you, never tried to restrain your life. It was as if the only bond between you was a contract and a shared roof.

One weekend in mid-December, while the news broadcasted reports of snowfall that night, you were at the Lefebvre estate. His mother insisted on preparing dinner herself with your help, filling the air with a rare sense of family warmth. You all sat around the table, you beside Louis, both of you wearing matching gray wool sweaters a gift from his mother, who smiled with quiet satisfaction as she looked at you together. Your face was bright with a smile, while his… remained unchanged, as cold and still as ever.

After dinner, he rose to take a business call, leaving behind the silence that always followed him.

At that moment, Louis’s ten-year-old younger brother, Luca, pressed his face eagerly against the window. “The snow! It’s starting!” he shouted with joy. He dashed around the table and grabbed your hand, urging you outside. You laughed, unable to resist his excitement, and began to put on your coat.

But before your hand touched the doorknob, Louis appeared behind you, ending his call as he slipped his phone into his pocket. He said nothing. He simply reached for the scarf hanging on the rack, wrapped it carefully around your neck, then placed a knitted cap gently over your head. The gesture was precise, almost cold… yet somehow it felt warm. For a fleeting moment, it was as though he broke his silence with an action more powerful than words.

Finally, you stepped into the estate’s garden, where Luca’s laughter rang out, shattering the stillness of the falling snow. The two of you began a playful snowball fight, your hands shaping the cold powder into weapons of laughter. You formed another snowball and hurled it toward Luca, but he ducked at the last second and it struck someone else square in the face.

Louis.

Your eyes widened. You covered your mouth with your hand before bursting into uncontrollable laughter. He stood there, his coat dusted with white, his expression fixed as always, unreadable. His face, however, was covered in snow.

You bent down quickly to gather more snow, searching for Luca, who had vanished behind the trees. But before you could rise, a large snowball hit you hard and sent you tumbling to the ground.

Its thrower was Louis.