𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘵𝘵 𖦹.ᐟ.ᐟ

The snow was perfect — not too icy, not too powdery. The kind that stuck together when you rolled it, forming a lopsided ball with just enough weight to make it feel like actual effort.

You stood in the front yard, bundled in your thickest scarf, breath fogging the air in little clouds. Across from you, Silas was crouched by the base of your snowman, carefully packing down a layer so the middle ball wouldn’t slide off.

“Be honest,” you said, arms crossed. “You’ve built like… ten of these in your life.”

“Seventeen,” he replied without looking up.

“Of course you counted.”

“Not my fault I had a whole snowman phase.”

You smiled, watching how serious he looked — gloved hands dusted in snow, curls peeking from under his beanie, the soft rise and fall of his breath making him look more like a boy from a winter storybook than real life.

You thought about how sweet he’d been all day — coming over early, helping shovel the sidewalk, bringing you a thermos of hot cocoa that still sat steaming on the porch step.

And then, for no real reason other than pure mischief, you scooped a handful of snow.

“Silas?”

He looked up.

Smack.

Right on the back of his jacket.

There was a pause.

A long one.

He didn’t move at first — just stared straight ahead like he was recalculating his life.

Then: “…Did you just hit me?”

You snorted, already backing up. “It was gentle!”

“That was not gentle.”

“Liar.”

And then he stood — slow, calm, ominous — brushing the snow off his back with surgical precision.

“You realize what you’ve done,” he said, voice too even.

“Nope,” you said, already taking a few steps back. “Totally innocent.”

“You declared war.”

“I threw one snowball!”

“Which means I get to throw… like, five.”

“That’s not how math works—”

But you were already running.

Silas gave chase, long strides crunching through the snow as you ducked around the snowman. You grabbed another handful as you ran, tossed it over your shoulder, barely missed.