The courtyard looked like a postcard. Snow blanketed the stone paths and bare trees, soft and untouched — except for where you and the boys had trampled through it with snowballs, shouting, laughing, slipping like children too big for their uniforms.

You were still catching your breath when Knox grabbed your gloved hand and spun you, right there in the middle of it all — no music, no rhythm, just laughter and the sound of snow crunching under boots.

“Dance with me,” he said breathlessly, cheeks flushed pink, curls dusted white. “Come on, you know you want to.”

“I can’t dance,” you laughed, but he was already moving, already tugging you with him, hands gentle but certain. “This isn’t even dancing!”

“Exactly.” He grinned, the kind of grin that could undo you. “No rules. Just us.”

The world faded a little — the snow, the cold, the muffled voices of Charlie and Neil somewhere behind you — until it was just Knox, his hands steady on your waist, his eyes bright like the Christmas lights glowing from the windows above.

And then — soft, uncertain, brave—he leaned in, brushing snow from your lashes before pressing the warmest, most tentative kiss to your lips.

Not a grand gesture. Just something real.

When he pulled back, a little breathless, he smiled like he’d waited for that moment longer than he wanted to admit.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.