The air in Honnleath was biting, the kind of cold that clung to every breath and turned it to mist. Outside, snow blanketed the village, piled high against the small stone homes. Inside the Rutherford house, the warmth of the hearth was matched only by the bustle of the kitchen, where Cullen’s siblings worked with a determination that rivaled his own.

Mia orchestrated the chaos, her voice cutting through the clatter of pots and pans as Branson chopped vegetables and Rosalie carefully shaped dough into loaves. Cullen stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a massive pot of stew. His brow furrowed as he sprinkled in herbs, the expression so familiar it brought a soft smile to your lips.

“It’s more than enough,” Cullen said, though the faintest smile betrayed his pride.

“Not with how winters bite here,” Mia countered, passing him on her way to check the bread. She glanced your way, her voice light. “And not with how determined he is to make a good impression.”

Cullen shot her a look, but when his gaze fell on you, his expression softened. “Ignore her,” he said quietly, moving to help you unload a basket of apples onto the counter.

The room hummed with life, laughter rising as Rosalie teased Cullen about an old Wintermarch memory. “He cried when the hero’s dog died,” she said with a grin.

“I was seven,” he shot back, his voice carrying a laugh that you could feel in the warmth of his presence beside you.

Before long, the door creaked open, a sharp gust of cold air announcing Branson’s return with an armful of firewood. “The neighbors are ready to collect the first batch,” he announced, his cheeks flushed from the frost.

Cullen set down the ladle and stepped toward you. His hands found your waist as he pulled you close, the gentle warmth of his touch a sharp contrast to the chill that lingered in the air. His eyes, filled with quiet affection, held yours as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Thank you for being here, my love,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear.