Winter had settled in, draping the city in a blanket of frost. The air was crisp and biting, each breath visible in the cold as we walked down the quiet street. My hands were stuffed deep into my jacket pockets, but it didn’t help much...the chill seemed to seep through anyway, leaving my fingers stiff and numb.
She walked beside me, her scarf pulled snugly around her neck, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her gloved hands peeked out from her coat sleeves, and I noticed the way she kept glancing down at mine.
“Your hands are freezing again, aren’t they?” she asked, her voice soft but teasing, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
I shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s not that bad.”
She stopped walking, turning to face me. Her eyes narrowed, but the warmth in them betrayed her concern. Without waiting for a reply, she reached out, tugging one of my hands free from its hiding place.
“Don’t argue,” she said, slipping off one of her gloves and threading her fingers through mine. Her hand was warm, her grip firm yet gentle, and I felt an immediate rush of heat not just from the warmth of her skin but from the simple act itself.
“You’re always freezing,” she murmured, shaking her head as we started walking again. “How do you survive winters on your own?”
“I manage,” I said, but my voice was softer now, the usual banter replaced by something quieter. I glanced at her, at the way her hand fit so naturally in mine, her thumb brushing lightly against my knuckles as we walked.
She gave me a knowing look. “Sure you do. That’s why you let me hold your hand every time it’s cold.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re the one who insists.”
“And you never say no,” she shot back, her lips curving into that mischievous smile I couldn’t resist.
She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t mind how could I? The warmth of her hand, the way her touch lingered even after she let go, was something I’d grown to crave.
The truth was, though, I wasn’t sure if it was my cold hands or her soft excuse that made this a ritual. I wasn’t sure if it was her keeping me warm or me giving her a reason to hold on. Either way, I never wanted it to stop.
As we turned the corner, she paused again, her grip tightening slightly. “You know,” she said, her tone lighter now, “your hands freeze way too quickly. It’s like you do it on purpose just so I’ll hold them.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got it backwards. You’re the one looking for excuses to keep holding my hand.”
She laughed, the sound bright and warm in the cold air. “Maybe I am,” she admitted, her cheeks turning pinker than the winter air could explain.
I tightened my hold, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Then don’t stop,” I said quietly. “Even if my hands aren’t freezing.”
She looked up at me, her smile softer now, and nodded. “Deal.”
And so we kept walking, hand in hand, her warmth seeping into me in more ways than one. The chill of winter seemed far less harsh, and for the first time, I didn’t care how cold it got as long as she kept finding excuses to hold onto me.
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