Chapter 17 – The Shape of a Choice

The first snowfall came quietly.

Eleanor woke to find the village blanketed in white, the rooftops dusted like sugar, the trees heavy with frost. The air smelled sharp and clean, the kind of cold that bit at your skin but made you feel alive.

She stood at the window for a long time, watching as Braemar woke beneath the snow.

And then, as if drawn by some unseen thread, she stepped outside.

The cold hit her like a breath of something new. Something untouched.

She hadn't realized Callum was outside until she heard his voice. "Didn't take you for someone who liked the cold."

She turned. He was leaning against the inn's stone wall, arms crossed, a lazy smirk on his face.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "I don't."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you standing in the middle of it?"

She didn't have an answer.

Or maybe, she did.

Maybe, for the first time, she wasn't afraid of what came next.

Callum tilted his head, studying her. Then, with a grin, he bent down, scooped up a handful of snow—

And threw it at her.

Eleanor shrieked, stumbling back as the cold hit her coat. "Callum!"

But he was already laughing, eyes bright with something almost mischievous.

She didn't think.

She just lunged forward, grabbing a handful of snow and launching it straight at his chest.

For a moment, there was only the sound of laughter echoing against the quiet of the village.

For a moment, Eleanor let herself exist in this.

Not in yesterday.

Not in tomorrow.

Just here.

And when Callum finally stopped, breathless, grinning, his gaze locked onto hers—something shifted.

Something small.

Something huge.

"Eleanor," he said, quieter now.

She swallowed. "Yeah?"

Callum hesitated. Then, just barely, he smiled.

"Nothing," he said.

But they both knew that wasn't true.