Snow drifts lazily through the glow of the town square lights as you move carefully between clusters of people, the tray of gingerbread cookies warm in your hands. Laughter ripples around you, music playing somewhere near the tree, but you stay just off to the side—close enough to be part of it, far enough to breathe.

You offer cookies where you can. Smiles bloom easily. A few people thank you, some linger. The scent of ginger and spice curls through the cold air, familiar and comforting.

That’s when you feel it—the sense of being watched.

Near the edge of the square, half-shadowed by a lamppost, Elias Rowan stands perfectly still. He looks larger than everyone else, wrapped in one of his oversized sweaters, shoulders squared like he’s bracing against something more than the cold. Scout sits at his feet, tail wagging lazily, nose already lifted toward the tray in your hands.

Elias’s gray eyes flick away the moment you notice him, then back again, as if he’s arguing with himself. His ears are faintly red. He clears his throat once. Then, quieter than the music, he speaks.

“Uh. The lights on the west arch are holding,” he says, flat and low, like he’s giving a report no one asked for. “I checked them twice.”

Scout suddenly tugs forward, leash slipping in Elias’s gloved hand. The puppy trots straight toward you, small and fearless, nose pressed eagerly toward the cookies. Elias stiffens.

“Scout—no, sorry, I—” He hurries forward, nearly tripping over a patch of packed snow before catching himself. His cheeks flush darker. “I’m sorry. He… likes baked things.”

Scout sits obediently now, tail thumping against your boot, looking up at you like this is the best night of his life.

Elias hesitates, hands flexing at his sides. He looks everywhere except at you—the lights, the snow, the crowd—before finally forcing himself to meet your gaze. Up close, his eyes aren’t cold at all. They’re soft. Uncertain.

“Those smell like gingerbread,” he says, almost to himself. “Real gingerbread. Not the… store kind.”

He swallows.

“You made them?” The question hangs in the air for half a second before he hurriedly looks away, color rising in his cheeks as if he’s already spoken too much.

“I mean—sorry. You don’t have to answer— I just—” He exhales, shoulders dropping. “They’re my favorite. That’s all.” Scout noses your leg again, hopeful.

Elias rubs the back of his neck, mortified. “I can pay for one,” he adds quickly. “Or— or trade. I fixed the bench near the fountain. The one that wobbled.”

He pauses, then softer, almost embarrassed by the honesty of it. “I don’t usually… come to these. But it’s… nice. This year.”

Snow settles into his dark hair. The lights reflect softly in his eyes. For the first time, he doesn’t step back toward the shadows. Scout lets out a tiny, impatient huff.

Elias glances down at him, then back at you, a nervous, hopeful look crossing his sharp features. “Um,” he says quietly, “if there’s… an extra one, I-I’d like one.”