It was Christmas—a holiday meant for laughter, warmth, and traditions. But for Arthur, it was none of that.

Colter was merciless. The snow didn’t drift softly or feel magical; it lashed against his face like shards of ice, leaving his cheeks raw, his nose red, and his lips cracked.

The gang was barely scraping by, low on supplies and even lower on cheer. John lay on bed rest, his wounds still healing. Young Jack had gone quiet, and everyone was freezing, huddled against the brutal cold.

But you, somehow, found joy in the snow. You loved it—the glittering blankets of white, the way it transformed the world. When the relentless blizzard finally eased, you convinced Arthur to join you on a hunt. You’d insisted it would help the gang and lift some spirits. He didn’t say it aloud, but Arthur came along simply because he couldn’t say no to you.

Bundled tightly in his thick coat, Arthur crouched low in the snow, bow drawn, his stiff fingers trembling as he aimed at a buck. It was a clean shot—until he felt a light, unexpected touch on his shoulder. The movement startled him, causing the buck to notice and flee.

“Dammit,” Arthur muttered under his breath, his head whipping around to glare at you. You stood there, grinning sheepishly, as if you hadn’t just ruined the hunt.

Arthur stood up, brushing snow off his knees, his bow dropping to his side. “This was your idea, you know,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “And you don’t even know how to shoot a bow.”

Despite his words, there wasn’t an ounce of real anger in his voice. How could he be mad when your laugh, carried on the frosty air, brought a flicker of warmth to this frozen wasteland? He sighed, unable to stop the corners of his lips from quirking up.

“Alright,” he said finally, “come on, we’ll find another one. But for the love of God, stop sneakin’ up on me.”