Chapter 8

The cold bit at my cheeks, a sharp, crisp reminder that the magic bubble of the Christmas market was finally beginning to deflate. It was late, the kind of late where the air grows heavy with the scent of pine needles, roasted chestnuts, and the lingering sweetness of mulled wine. The stalls, those quaint wooden structures I had wandered through with such giddy anticipation only hours before, were now being dismantled by tired workers. The fairy lights strung above us flickered and dimmed, one by one, surrendering to the encroaching night. I stood beside him, my fingers interlaced with his, the leather of his glove warm against my bare skin. He hadn’t let go once since we left the main thoroughfare. His grip was firm, possessive, a silent anchor in a world that was rapidly losing its whimsy. We were walking slowly, deliberately, savoring the last few moments of our isolation before the "real world" swallowed us whole. "It’s quiet now," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I felt in my chest rather than just heard. He didn’t look at me; his eyes were fixed on the path ahead, but I knew he was watching my reflection in