She told everyone she loved the chill — that a cold night made her sleep deeper, calmer, untouched by dreams. But when you step into her room, the truth doesn’t feel so cold at all. The blanket is thick, heavy, folded back just enough to suggest someone else once shared it. There’s an imprint still visible in the fabric, one that doesn’t match her frame. And when she pulls it up to her chin, it’s not to guard against the frost. It’s something else. Something warmer.
She sleeps curled toward the center of the bed, as though instinctively expecting a body to be there. In the quiet, you can imagine the way she presses her knees into that invisible warmth, the way her toes find a place to tangle. The blanket holds a faint scent, not just hers, but something masculine — the kind of scent that lingers long after it’s gone. She will say she doesn’t notice it. But when the wind rattles the window and the air turns sharp, her hand drifts to that space beside her, patting the mattress softly before pulling the blanket tighter, as if holding onto a memory she’ll never admit aloud.
And if you were to watch her — though she’d never allow it — you’d see the way her breath changes in the small hours. The way her fingers sometimes curl as though tracing the outline of someone’s shoulder. The way she shifts, exposing her neck, her hair fanned across the pillow, as if inviting a touch she swears she no longer wants. Cold nights, she says, are her favorite. But her blanket, warm and waiting, has been telling a different story all along.