He frowned at the tiny snowman. “Snow is purple.”
Her brain stopped working. Just stopped. “What?”
“Snow is purple. These should be purple.”
“No. Snow is white. Errr… frozen water vapor that falls from the sky? White and fluffy and—” She stared at him but he just looked at her flatly. “Wait… what? Are you serious? Your snow is really purple?”
“All snow is purple.” He folded his arms, looking between her and the little white snowmen.
She shook her head. “No, Earth snow is white. Pure white like clouds or—” She gestured at the snowman. “Like that.”
“There’s no such thing as white snow.”
They stared at each other across the table and then she laughed. They were from different worlds, she knew that, but it hadn’t actually hit her until?—
“How is your snow purple?”
He shrugged. “Atmospheric composition, I guess?” He waved a hand. “Science. I’m a rancher, not a scientist. But it’s purple. Always has been.”
“And you’ve never seen white snow? Ever? Not in holos or?—”
“I thought it was just very pale purple in Earth recordings.”
A laugh bubbled up. They were arguing about snow color.
He set the snowman down, lining all three up in a row. “I like them. Even if they’re the wrong color.”
“They’re not wrong, they’re Earth snowmen.”
“Wrong.” But his lips quirked at the corner, that almost-smile that made her stomach flip.
Standing suddenly, he left the room. She looked after him, panic rolling through her. Did the color of snow matter that much to him? She heard him in his bedroom, drawers opening. When he returned, he carried something wrapped in soft cloth.
“Your turn. A present.”
Her hands shook as she took it. The weight was substantial, solid. She unwrapped it slowly, afraid of what she’d find. It was probably practical—a tool or supplies or…
It was a hair comb.
Her breath caught. It wasn’t just a hair comb, it was a beautiful hair comb. The handle was carved from dark wood into the shape of intertwining winter branches, and there were tiny crystals inlaid along the handle that caught the morning light and threw tiny rainbows across her palm.
“Goraath...” Words failed her.
She traced the smooth wood, the delicate crystals. This must have taken hours. No… days. The teeth were perfectly spaced, each one carved and sanded until they were silk-smooth. This hadn’t been bought.
This had been made.
By hand. For her.
“This is... when did you make this?”
“Late.” He watched her with an intensity that made her skin heat. “After you went to bed. Most nights since you arrived.”
Oh shit. While she’d been lying awake thinking about him, he’d been sitting up carving this. Working by lamplight after long days of ranch work. His hands—those massive, scarred hands—creating something this delicate.
“It’s for your hair.” His voice was low and rough. “Human females wear their hair down more than ours did. Thought you might need something to keep it back when you’re working.”
She bit her lip and had to blink hard against the sudden burn of tears. “It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever made me.” Her voice cracked on the words. “No one’s ever... made me something like this.”
