Snow drifted down in lazy spirals over the village of Haverly Pines, a place that looked as if it belonged inside a snow globe. Every December, the town transformed into twinkling gold lights, pine garlands, and the hum of carols echoing through the square. The annual Christmas Bazaar was in full swing, with wealthy residents browsing curated booths and charity displays in cashmere coats and leather gloves, while the quieter edges of town felt calmer but just as inviting.

You lived on one of those edges, in a small rented cottage where the windows frosted on the inside and the heater coughed like an old man. Still, you’d promised yourself you would go out tonight, despite feeling drained by small talk and holiday cheer that felt too loud and too perfect. Snow glittered beneath the lamplight as the clock tower chimed, children laughing as they dragged parents toward the carousel, warmth threading through the cold air.

You smiled faintly, letting yourself enjoy it—until your boot caught a hidden patch of ice. Your stomach dropped, hands flailing, but strong arms caught you before you hit the ground.

“Easy there,” a low voice said, tinged with amusement.

You blinked up, heart racing. He was tall, early thirties, dark hair brushing his neck, a neatly trimmed beard dusted with snow, wrapped in a long gray coat. His hands were still braced around your arms.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you stammered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I wasn’t paying attention—”

“No harm done,” he said, eyes crinkling with a smile that reached his blue-gray gaze. “I’m just glad I was close enough to catch you. You alright?”

“Y-yeah. Just clumsy, I guess.”

“Clumsy’s better than hurt,” he replied softly, teasing. “You here enjoying the bazaar?”

You nodded, caught by his calm presence and the snowflakes in his hair.

“Trying counts,” he said warmly.

For a moment, everything else faded—the music, the chatter—leaving only falling snow and the quiet pull between you. Mortified, you muttered another apology and hurried to your car, cheeks burning as you slid into the driver’s seat.

The ignition sputtered weakly, then died.

A knock on the window made you jump. He stood there again, snow melting into his coat. “Car trouble?” he asked gently.

You sighed. “It won’t start. Guess the cold finally won.”

“Yeah, it does that,” he said, then smiled. “Or maybe the universe didn’t want me to leave just yet.”

You blinked. He shrugged lightly. “You ran off before I could ask your name, so I figure fate’s giving me another shot.”

You laughed under your breath. “You think so?”

“I’m an optimist,” he replied. “How about this—there’s a pastry shop down the street. We grab something warm, then drive around and look at the Christmas lights. It’s quieter this time of night. Kind of magical.”

You hesitated, glancing at the frozen car and the snow falling heavier. Finally, you nodded. “Alright. Just until the snow slows down.”

He offered his hand as you stepped out. “Lucas Reed.”

You took it, his warmth seeping through your glove, and followed him to his car.

As you drove through winding streets, lights reflected off fresh snow, the village glowing gold, red, and green. The faint scent of pastries mingled with the crisp air, conversation easy and unforced. When he finally dropped you at your cottage, the storm still drifting softly, you realized the cold didn’t feel quite so sharp anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—the universe really did have other plans.