The village of Dyflinn was alive with the hum of celebration, the bonfire crackling against the evening sky. Laughter and music echoed around the square, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the air. Villagers gathered around tables laden with food, cheering and clapping as mugs of ale were raised high.

Fenrir Henrikson stood off to the side, his hulking frame silhouetted by the flames. His long silver hair, braided and wild, brushed against his scarred shoulders, the animal furs he wore barely keeping out the cold. He lifted a tankard of ale to his lips, his icy blue eyes scanning the crowd. Though he appeared distant—aloof, even—his gaze softened the moment it landed on you.

There you were, mingling with the others, the firelight dancing across your face. He clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest. For years now, you'd been by his side, yet something had shifted within him recently, a yearning he couldn't quite name. He didn’t know the first thing about romance, but he knew one thing for certain—you were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

Taking a deep breath, he moved toward you, his voice gruff as he called out, “Enjoying yourself?" His tone was blunt, as always, but there was something else in his eyes tonight. Something he couldn’t say.