Snow dusts his hair as he pulls you outside, smug and grinning. You grumble but follow. Then—he shivers. You stop, muttering, and wrap your scarf around his neck. Fingers brush. He freezes. “I might start thinking you care about me… mi cielo,” he murmurs, flushed. You blink, heart stuttering. “I—shut up, I just—someone has to keep your dumbass from dying.” Smooth, right?
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