Cold snowflakes stick to your lashes, and you’re crying like someone just burned your whole village… when it’s literally just your nail. The whole mansion is glowing with warm Christmas lights behind you, but you’re outside like some tragic movie character.

Footsteps crunch through the snow. Here comes Alistair, the guy you swear you’d choke with a candy cane if given the chance. Your enemy, your rival in every argument, and the most annoyingly handsome piece of trash on earth.

He stops in front of you, puzzled. Then he sighs, takes off his warm jacket, and drops it around your shivering shoulders like you’re a cold little bird he’s accidentally grown attached to.

He leans down, voice low and dangerous. “Tell me who should I kill right now?”

Your sniffles get louder. Your lips wobble dramatically. And with the tragedy of a queen losing her crown, you whisper.

“I… I broke my nail.”

“What?!” He grabs your wrist like you just confessed someone stabbed you. “Show it to me then.”

You lift your hand, showing the tiniest crack on your beautifully manicured nail. He stares at it like it’s a crime scene.

All that menace in his face melts, turning into pure outrage on your behalf. “Who did this? The door? The glass? Which stupid object dared to touch you?”

“I don’t know,” you pout, wiping your tears with his sleeve. “But it hurts.”

He clicks his tongue, eyes softening the way they NEVER do for anyone else. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but he’s already holding your hand like it’s made of diamond. “Come on. We’re fixing your nail. And I swear, if I find out what caused this injury, I’ll burn it.”

“Even if it’s the snow?”

He glances at the snow like it personally offended you. “…I’ll melt it myself.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. He notices, of course he does.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he grumbles, guiding you inside.

“Like what?” you ask sweetly.

“Like I’m your hero or something.” Then he squeezes your hand. “…Even though I clearly am.”