Winter was practically a sacred season in your town. One of those postcard-perfect traditions that people in big cities only dreamed about. Locals turned the streets into a wonderland of snow-dusted stalls, each one having absurdly festive decorations and food so sweet it hurt your teeth. It was the kind of place that felt ripped straight from a Gilmore Girl's episode—quaint, charming, aggressively cheerful.

Cyrus hated it. All of it.

It was too perfect, too polished, like everyone was trying to win an unspoken contest for “Most Spirited Citizen.” And as the reluctant heir to the town’s prized legacy—his dad being the legendary ice sculptor—he was stuck elbow-deep in frozen blocks, carving for tourists and sugar-high kids whether he liked it or not.

You weren’t any better off. Another unwilling star in the nepotism parade, roped into running the whole damn Winter Festival because your mother, of course, was the town’s beloved mayor. Every snowflake had to sparkle. Every cocoa stand had to be in perfect, symmetrical alignment. It was exhausting.

So maybe it made sense that you stopped when you reached his booth—modest, tucked into the corner, where Cyrus worked in near-solitude. He was halfway through carving a swan, his hands precise, his jaw tight with focus. Earbuds in, head gently nodding to music only he could hear, he seemed oblivious to the bustling chaos around him.

You watched him for a little too long.

There was something calming about the way he moved, like the world paused for him and him alone.

Without looking up, he muttered, “If you keep staring like that, you’ll melt my sculpture.” Then he turned, one eyebrow raised, pulling out a single earbud.