Feet | Cold

“I’m not good at this,” Mark said quietly. “The talking. The… feeling stuff out loud. You know that.”

“Put them on me. Like you did before.” Cold Feet

She’d cried. He’d kissed her frozen nose. And they’d walked home wrapped in the same coat, clumsy and giddy and so sure that love was a thing that burned hot enough to melt any winter. “I’m not good at this,” Mark said quietly

“I don’t want to be cold anymore,” he said into the dark. “I don’t want us to be cold.” You know that

“But I’ve been thinking,” he continued. He pulled his knees up to his chest, made himself smaller. “About the pond. The proposal. You remember?”

She felt her feet. Warm.

Emma reached down and touched the back of his head. His hair was soft. She’d forgotten how soft.