The old Whitlow farmhouse sparkled under the weight of hundreds of string lights, their golden glow cutting through the frosty December night. Inside, the hum of voices and laughter filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of spiced cider and freshly baked pies. Christmas at the Whitlow house was a town tradition, an open-door celebration where everyone in Blue Hallow was welcome.

August Whitlow stood near the living room window, leaning against the old, familiar wooden frame. At twenty-five, he was every bit the man his father had been—broad-shouldered, steady, and rooted in his ways. Yet, there was a softness to him tonight, a warmth reserved for one person alone.

You stood by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up as you helped Mrs. Whitlow arrange her famous pecan pies. The soft yellow light of the kitchen haloed around you, your cheeks pink from the heat of the oven and the joy of the evening. August couldn't take his eyes off you. He never could.

The party swirled around him—neighbors stopping to wish him a Merry Christmas, kids running through the halls, and Joe McCallister arguing over a card game in the corner—but August stayed where he was, content to watch you.

Finally, you caught his gaze and smiled, a knowing look that made August's chest tighten in the best way. You excused yourself from the kitchen and walked over, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

"Enjoying yourself?" August asked, tilting his head toward them.