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Beyond the blankets, the air stings, an icy bite brought through the thin windows. You bury your cold nose into the pillow with a sigh, pulling the blankets further over your shoulder. On days like these, you wish you could hibernate through the coldest part of the winter, and wake up to spring and new growth and sunshine.
Beside you, Harry hefts a sigh and shifts his weight, making you burrow closer, into the warm space between his bulk and the mattress. Your feet are tucked between his thighs, your hands pressed between your chest and his. Usually, on a cold day like this, you’d be shivering already, but with Harry, it’s easier. You crack open one eye, peering blindly at the ceiling. It’s still dark, but given that it’s the dead of winter, that doesn’t mean much.
“Harry,” You murmur. He grunts. “What time is it?” You know it can’t be past 0730, because Harry wakes up then by himself, come hell or high water, but today is your first shared day off in three weeks and you want to make the most of it.
“Six,” He replies, not having moved in the slightest. His voice rumbles through you, rough with sleep, and you hide a smile in your pillow. As always, he sees right through you, pokes you lightly in the side without disturbing the blanket pulled over you.
(The part of the blanket you and Harry have been laying under is warmed by your bodies, but you know through experience that even half an inch beyond is like ice, and you’d told Harry as much. The fact that he remembers makes you feel dizzy with affection.)
In response, you prod his soft thigh with your toes, and he snorts and pulls you closer. “It’s snowing,” He informs you, and you have no idea how he could possibly know that when it’s pitch black outside, but apparently he does, and you believe him. There’s a certain weight to the world when it snows, a certain quietness that can’t be replicated by anything else.
“Must be,” You agree, and he sort of vibrates in place, the way he does when he’s trying very hard not to disturb you but he wants to move. His foot jostles up and down, and you curl closer to his burning warmth, trying to soak some up for yourself, even as you find yourself shivering.
Harry wraps his arm around your back, trying to keep you warm, but it doesn’t help. “Kim,” He says, and you sense that he’s trying not to laugh. “Kim, this is because you have the body mass of a stick insect.”
If you were any less cold, you’d be offended. As it is, you just huff and hide your cold nose in his neck. “We can’t all be so generously endowed,” You mumble belatedly, and he laughs, hard enough to shake you and the bed. You think he should laugh more. He has a good laugh, this big, hollow-barrel laugh that vibrates his chest and makes his face light up with warmth. Much better than his rictus grin or the somber, flat scowl. You like to see him happy.
“I’ll show you generously endowed,” He threatens, and you laugh yourself now, quiet and huffy, trying not to move too much. Warmth fizzles in your stomach, like those butterflies girls used to talk about getting when they liked a boy - when such things could be talked about - and it makes you feel silly, but in a good way. Like you could be a little childish and Harry wouldn’t mind.
It’s not all good. You know that better than most. Harry has his moments - you have yours too - and neither of you are perfect. Sometimes, those pokes and prods and playful teasing comments turn bitter and genuine. Sometimes he makes you so angry you could choke on it. Sometimes, he just makes you sad.
But there are more and more moments like this, you’re finding, moments where you’re together, with nowhere to be and no-one to come looking for you, and he’s not away in his head, and you’re not hiding behind your professional veneer and your notebook. It’s just you.
You poke Harry with your toes again, and usually he’d wrestle you to the bed and bellow like an enraged beast and you’d pretend to fight back but really you’re laughing too hard to try, and then he’d flop his weight on you until you wheeze and plead mercy. Today, it’s much too cold to engage in such tomfoolery, so he only pinches your backside, not nearly hard enough to hurt, and then pats your thigh with his big hand.
The curtains he hung up in the bedroom two weeks ago are thrift store finds, white and patterned with birds and vines. To you, right now, they’re just a blur of vague grey, but you know what they look like. You remember him bringing them home with a triumphant smile on his face and holding up two fingers to your eyes and repeating two reál, Kim, that’s it! For four curtains!
“I love you,” You realize, hardly noticing you’d said it aloud. Oh, God, you love this man so much and you hadn’t even thought about it. You love him. You love him.
“Oh,” He says, and you would tense, but it’s so full of awe and wonder that you couldn’t possibly think it’s negative. “You do?”
You laugh, a bit, giddy and breathless. “Yes,” You tell him. “Yes, I do. God help me. I really do.”
For a moment you hear his breath go wobbly and you’re worried he’ll cry, but he doesn’t. He just presses a bristly kiss to your head - all he can reach at this angle - and says, “I love you too, Kim.” He sounds so earnest, in a way you’ve honestly never heard from him before, so open and vulnerable. He’s handed you his heart, and you don’t think he knows he’s got yours too. “I’d give up cigarettes if you asked me to.”
“I know.” You assure him; you do know.
A pause, and then he asks hesitatingly, “You’re not asking me to, right, Kim?”
“No, Harry,” You say, a laugh in your voice. You laugh harder when he sighs in relief, shaking your head against his shoulder.
The air outside bites, but you’re warm, here.