Wells only meant to throw one.

Just one snowball. A casual toss. Harmless. Packed tight, shaped right, tested in his palm like he knew exactly what he was doing. He gave it a slow squeeze, rolled it once, then lobbed it easy, controlled, deliberate. Not even close to full power.

Big mistake.

Because once that first snowball left his hand, things snowballed fast.

Someone laughed. Someone fired back. Suddenly Wells is scooping again, packing, pressing the snow tighter and tighter, hands moving with practiced confidence. One throw turns into five. Five turns into a full-on chase. Boots slipping. Jackets and shirts coming off. Breath fogging thick in the air.

Cold everywhere… except him.

He stays planted while everyone else loses footing. Knows how to keep his balance when things get wet and out of control. Knows when to grip harder, when to ease off. Knows exactly how much force to use so it lands just right, solid, satisfying, impossible to ignore.

Snow starts turning up in places it definitely didn’t start. Down collars. Inside sleeves. Packed where it makes people gasp and laugh at the same time. Everyone’s flushed now, breathing harder than they planned.

Wells just stands there when it finally slows, chest rising, hands cold, grin slow and dangerous.

“Funny thing about snowballs,” he says. “One good toss and suddenly everyone’s worked up.” He didn’t plan for it to turn into that kind of afternoon. …but he’s definitely enjoying how worked up everyone got and he’s not complaining.

They’re panting now. Overheated under too many layers. Faces flushed, lips parted, snow melting on skin that’s suddenly way too sensitive. And every single one of them is watching Wells.

He doesn’t move fast. Doesn’t need to. Just shifts his stance—wide, grounded, owning space. Chest rising slow. Breath steady. That grin says everything: he’s not the one who lost control.

Snow clings to his forearms like cuffs. One slick line trails down his abs, glinting. He doesn’t wipe it off. Just lets them stare.

“Y’all good?” he asks, voice rough from the cold, or maybe not.

One guy nods too quick. Another bites back a laugh. A few shift in place, but nobody steps back. No one dares.

Because they know what happens if he bends down again.

Wells waits. Draws it out. Then finally drops to one knee. Gloves off. Bare fingers sinking deep. He works slow. Packs tight. Compresses. Shapes it exactly how he wants. His hands know pressure. Know rhythm. Know how to make something hit hard and stick where it counts.

They’re holding their breath now. Watching him rise, big and golden and grinning. Snowball thick in his grip, cocked low like a promise.

He looks at them. Then at the ball. Then back.

“Thing is,” he says, “you let one slip… and suddenly everyone wants to get hit.”

Pause. Grin wider.

“Round two.”

He throws hard this time.

And the screams that follow don’t sound cold at all.