It silenced me faster than anything else ever could.
Because Callum Fraser, for all his fame and ferocity, still looked at me like I was made of stardust and miracle. And I knew, in that moment, that no matter how many races we won or countries we conquered, this—right here, in his car, in his homeland, in the hush between snowflakes—would always be the most precious thing we built.
I studied him as we passed through the village—his stubbled jaw, his profile, the little furrow between his brows as he drove. I’d seen him under podium lights, soaked in champagne. I’d seen him broken in my arms. I’d seen him make the impossible look easy.
But here… here he was just Callum. My Cal.
Raised in a place with no glitz, no glamour. Just grit and rain and wind and snow and a kind of quiet that forged steel.
And even though I’d grown up with more than enough—castles, private tutors, alpine winters—I felt the difference when I looked at him.
He wasn’t hardened by life. He was softened by purpose. He didn’t need to prove himself. He already knew who he was. And he’d chosen me—loved me so fully, so unconditionally, that I couldn’t help but fall every single day.
“You’re staring,” he said softly, glancing over.
I blinked. “Can you blame me?”
He smiled. Reached for my hand across the console. His palm was warm, rough from years of gripping wheels and holding history. I threaded our fingers together and leaned my head against the seat, eyes still on him.
“This might be the best birthday gift I could give you this year,” I said.
He raised a brow. “Me, driving us through a frozen tundra?”
I shook my head. “No. Me… loving you in it.”
And he didn’t say a word. Just brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, then kissed my wedding rings. We both knew this wasn’t just a drive. It was him showing me his humble beginnings, completely free from his chains, unashamed and proud of who he’d been and who he’d become.
I was so fucking proud of him.
The snow was still fallingsoft and slow when we pulled up to the cottage.
A sliver of moonlight cut through the trees, casting long shadows over the frost-covered stone. The red door was still a few paces away when it opened wide—like they’d been waiting.
Malina was the first to appear, cardigan sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a tartan brooch fastened proudly over her chest. Her dark brown hair—wavy like Cal’s—spilled down her shoulders, streaked through with silver, gleaming in the porch light.
“Oh, look at her!” she gasped, her thick Scottish accent like music, already teary-eyed as she bounded down the steps. “She’sreal.”
Cal chuckled under his breath beside me. “Told you, mum.”
I barely had time to register the thick Scottish lilt before she surged forward and wrapped her arms around me. I let out a surprised breath as she crushed me into her chest, smelling of bergamot and shortbread.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this hug,” she whispered in my ear, and stupid tears pricked my eyes. “You’regorgeous, hen. More so in person. My boy wasn’t exaggerating. And you’re shivering—Dougal!”
My father-in-law was already striding toward us, coat open, expression vaguely horrified as he caught sight of my legs beneath the hem of my tartan Christmas dress and peacoat.
“Stockings?” he barked, eyeing my attire like it personally offended him. “In this bloody weather?”
“I—”
“No trousers? No boots? Christ above, lass, you’ll catch your death?—”
“Dougal,” Malina chided, smacking his chest lightly. “She’s dressed up forus,ya daft man. It’s her husband’s birthdayanddays before the holiday. Let her be pretty.”
“She can be pretty inside where it’s warm,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and ushering me toward the house. “Bloody hell. Frozen to the bone.”
I bit back a laugh. Cal was beaming in a way I’d never seen before and—merde—it made me fall just a bit harder.
Malina climbed the steps first, pushing the front door open. “Don’t mind him. He’s been grumbling about this weather since September.”
