There's a certain warmth to him that I can't quite explain, a warmth that spreads up into my chest, into my neck, then the tips of my ears as I glance to my side. He's a steady presence, arm pressed agaisnt mine. He doesn't reach out, doesn't move, doesn't even offer a word in the silence. I let my eyes fall back to my hands, flexing my fingers.

I pause, hand splayed open in the cold winter air. It's chilly, the breeze that drags by making me bury my face further into my hoodie, winter nipping at my numb face. His hand is tucked into his pockets, out of sight, out of reach, but oddly enough it doesn't stop me from tugging on his sleeve. He doesn't resist, only offering an acknowledging glance as I pull his left hand from his pocket.

I tuck my arm under his, threading my thicker, rougher fingers through his thinner, softer ones. I tighten my hold as he tightens his. A pleasant heat spreads from the palm of his hand into mine, running up my arm and spreading through my chest. I slouch further, flushed face, no longer just from the cold, burrowing deeper into fabric.

Tentatively, reverently, I feel his thumb rub the back of my hand, and I lean into his touch, head falling onto his shoulder.

It doesn't feel quite as cold anymore.