The Fated Encounter
1593 Words
The snow hit my bare shoulders first—sharp and immediate, melting against overheated skin. The cold should've shocked me into sense.
It didn't.
I walked.
No direction. No plan. Just forward, like my body knew how to keep moving even if the rest of me had gone quiet.
The city glittered around me with the smug cheer of people who'd never had a holiday turn into a crime scene. Storefronts wrapped in gold garlands. Streetlamps crowned with wreaths. White lights spiraling around trees like they could squeeze all the dark out of the world if they tried hard enough.
A group of strangers in matching scarves laughed under a glowing reindeer sculpture. Someone snapped a photo. Someone spun in place to catch the lights in their hair as if it mattered.
I kept walking.
My mascara burned as it slid—hot tracks against freezing air. Snow caught in my lashes. Tears kept coming anyway, like my face was leaking without consulting me.
"I hate New Year's," I whispered.
The words fogged in front of me and vanished.
A gust of wind shoved through the avenue, lifting my dress against my thighs. I barely registered it. My body had gone distant—like it belonged to someone else, and I was just dragging it behind me.
December ruins my life.
Every time I think I've outrun it.
Every time I let myself believe maybe this year will be different.
Love is a scam.
You invest. You decorate. You talk yourself into stability. And then someone changes the terms without telling you, and suddenly you're standing in a room full of blinking lights, watching your future get rewritten by a stranger in heels.
Magic isn't real.
There is no holiday miracle.
No midnight fix.
Just blinking lights and better liars.
A church choir sang somewhere down the block, soft and earnest in the cold.
Silent night... holy night...
"Please," I muttered, my voice cracking on the edge of a laugh. "Be less on the nose."
My phone buzzed inside my clutch.
I didn't check it.
Mark's name would be there—regret wrapped in logic, apologies shaped like blame.
Or worse:
Can we talk?
No.
We talked.
You chose.
Snow thickened, swirling under streetlamps in wild spirals. It dusted parked cars, softening sharp edges, pretending the world was gentler than it was. People hurried past me with heads down, shoulders hunched, hands tucked into warm pockets.
I wasn't cold yet.
Shock does that. It holds the temperature at a distance and calls it protection.
My feet carried me to the corner.
Off the curb.
Without asking.
A horn exploded.
Headlights flared white—close, fast, angry.
For a strange, suspended second, I didn't move.
Because maybe this would be simpler.
No more Decembers.
No more hoping.
No more walking into rooms where I don't belong.
The car surged toward me, tires hissing through wet slush.
And then—
A hand clamped around my arm.
Strong. Unyielding.
I almost jerked away on instinct—annoyance flaring hot and stupid. Don't touch me. Don't claim space on me. Don't—
But the grip yanked me back so hard my heel skidded. My body slammed into something solid and warm as the car roared past, close enough that icy spray slapped my bare legs.
Sound snapped back all at once.
My breath tore in.
My heart kicked into motion—sudden, furious, alive.
I hadn't realized it had stopped fighting.
The hand on my arm didn't loosen.
It anchored.
Heat bled through my skin where his fingers wrapped around me, startling against the cold. Goosebumps rose along my neck—too fast, too sharp to be only winter.
The streetlight above us flickered once.
The wind—mid-gust—seemed to falter, like it hit an invisible wall and decided to go around.
Snow drifted down and, for a heartbeat, it felt like it fell differently around him. Like it hesitated.
I swallowed, throat tight, and forced my eyes up.
Broad chest. Dark coat dusted with snow. The kind of presence that didn't need volume to be felt. Close enough that I caught the scent of him—pine, smoke, and something wild underneath that didn't belong in any cologne bottle.
My pulse did something traitorous.
Not fear.
Awareness.
His hand tightened slightly, steadying me like I was an object he'd decided was not allowed to fall.
A low voice—rough as winter wind and somehow deeper than the city noise—vibrated above me.
"Careful, little human."
The words didn't just reach my ears.
They vibrated through me, like my bones recognized the frequency.
His hand was still wrapped around my arm.
Not crushing.
Not tentative.
Certain.
Snow gathered in the dark fabric of his coat, then vanished where it touched him, melting too fast to be normal. Heat rolled off him in steady waves, soaking through the thin silk of my dress and into skin that had forgotten warmth existed.
I became aware of everything at once.
The pressure of his fingers.
The rough texture of wool beneath my palm—I hadn't realized I'd braced myself against him.
The scent.
Pine and smoke, yes.
But underneath that—something alive. Something wild and male and dangerously clean, like cold forest air just before dawn.
My pulse stumbled.
I was still crying.
I was also suddenly, irrationally aware of the shape of his mouth.
This is not the time.
Pride flared up, sharp and reflexive. I tried to pull my arm back.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. "You can let go."
His grip eased—not fully releasing, but giving me space to pretend I had it. Like he was humoring me.
His gaze dropped to my face.
It wasn't a glance.
It was an assessment—slow, intent, predatory in a way that should've made me take a step back.
Instead, my feet stayed planted like the street had decided for me.
"You walked into traffic," he said.
His voice was deep enough to feel structural. Like it belonged in stone, not in a human throat.
"I misjudged," I replied, forcing air into my lungs. "It's been a long night."
His eyes flicked down—bare shoulders, trembling knees I refused to acknowledge, a dress so wrong for this weather it bordered on insulting.
"No coat," he noted.
"I left in a hurry."
The smallest change went through him.
A tightening of the jaw. A stillness that felt deliberate.
"Who hurt you?" he asked.
Not what happened.
Not are you okay?
Who.
"I don't even know you," I said, my voice thinner than I liked.
He tilted his head slightly, studying. Calculating.
"Yes," he agreed. "And yet."
"And yet" did something strange inside me.
The snowstorm thickened, spinning harder between buildings. People hurried past with heads down, shoulders hunched, hands buried in warm pockets.
Around us, the wind seemed to hesitate.
Not stopping.
Bending.
Curving like it didn't want to intrude.
My heartbeat shifted—traitor that it was—settling into a slower rhythm, heavy and steady, as if it recognized the cadence.
As if it had always known it.
"This isn't your problem," I said.
His gaze stayed locked on mine. "Wrong."
The single word landed low in my stomach.
From down the sidewalk, laughter burst—loud, sloppy, soaked in alcohol.
Four men stumbled out of a bar, hats crooked, coats half-buttoned. Their breath steamed in the cold. One of them spotted me and brightened like he'd found entertainment.
"Well, look at that," he called, swaying. "Holiday miracle."
Another squinted. "Sweetheart, you're underdressed."
"Freezing for fashion?" a third said, grinning. "Or just desperate for attention?"
My spine went rigid.
Old instinct rose—sarcasm as a shield, sharpness as armor—
But the words snagged in my throat because the men didn't stop at comments.
One of them drifted closer, too close, reaching out like my body was public property. His fingers lifted toward my hair—toward the wet strands stuck to my cheek.
Before he could touch me, Silas moved.
A step forward.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Deliberate.
He placed himself between us—not fully blocking me, not caging me—but drawing a clear line in the snow that said this far, no farther.
Relief hit first—hot and humiliating.
Then anger at myself for feeling it.
The man's hand hovered in midair, uncertain now, as if he'd run into something solid he couldn't see.
Silas's shoulders squared.
The streetlight above us flickered once.
His gaze lifted to them, and something in the air changed—thickening, sharpening, as if the night itself leaned closer.
"Walk away," he said.
No shout.
No theatrics.
Just command.
One of the men laughed, but it came out wrong—thin, nervous. "Relax, buddy. We're just joking."
Silas tilted his head again, the motion almost curious.
Then his eyes caught the light.
The darkness fractured.
Gold flared beneath the streetlamp—unnatural, molten, unmistakable.
My body reacted before my mind could organize it.
Something ancient in me went perfectly still.
Predator.
Not human.
A low sound rolled from his chest.
Not quite a warning.
A promise.
A growl that vibrated in my ribs.
The closest man's grin collapsed. His face drained so fast it was almost comical if it hadn't been terrifying.
"Jesus," one muttered, stepping back.
Another swallowed hard, bravado leaking out of him.
Silas didn't blink.
Didn't look away.
The gold in his eyes burned against the snow.
And the men backed away in visible fear.
- Writer
