She mentioned the chill almost casually, her voice light, as though she were merely commenting on the weather. The words should have carried her hand toward the coat draped across the chair, the practical choice, the obvious solution. But she didn’t move for it. Instead, she shifted her body toward his, closing the distance by a margin so small it could have been missed, if not for the unmistakable warmth that radiated from her once she leaned closer. He noticed her decision instantly—the way her shoulder brushed against his, the subtle pressure of her thigh edging into proximity. The excuse was cold air, but the truth was the fire that proximity created. She hadn’t chosen fabric for comfort; she had chosen him.
The silence that followed was not empty. It brimmed with what neither of them dared to articulate. He could feel the faint tremor of her arm against his, the softness of her nearness, the steady cadence of her breath. She hadn’t asked if it was acceptable; she had acted, confident in the unspoken permission she knew he would give. He remained still, but stillness was its own answer. If he had wanted distance, he could have leaned away, reached for her coat himself, broken the spell with practicality. He did none of those things. Instead, he surrendered to the closeness, feeling the way her body claimed space she had no need to claim—except that she wanted to.
When she finally tilted her head slightly, almost as though settling into the comfort of his presence, he realized that the cold had never been her problem. The room wasn’t drafty; the night wasn’t bitter. The chill she spoke of had been nothing more than a bridge, a pretext to justify the contact she intended all along. Her body had answered honestly even if her words had not. He breathed her in, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin, and knew that she had made a choice. Not the coat. Not distance. Him. And though she said nothing more about the cold, he couldn’t help but feel the truth warming him more than any garment ever could.