December in Forks, the snow had fallen up to you knees and Charlie spent a good chunk of his morning clearing the driveway and the path to the porch.

You picked up some snow while he was shoveling it out of the way, forming a snowball.

“No,” Charlie said stubbornly as eyeing the snowball you held in your hand. “I don’t play like that.”

“Are you chicken?” You taunted Charlie. You flapped your arms like a chicken to emphasize your point.

Charlie rolled his eyes and huffed a chuckle. Little did you know he had a snowball behind his back. He threw it at you, hitting your arm.

It was on.