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Winter announces itself rudely.
Mydei wakes with a sharp inhale, breath fogging in front of his face before his brain even catches up. Cold—real, biting cold—seeps through the room, curling around his shoulders and down his spine. He blinks at the dim ceiling, frowning.
…That’s not right.
He’s sure he turned the heater on before bed. He always does. Who forgets to turn on the heater in the middle of winter? Certainly not him.
Carefully, he shifts, only to realize he can’t.
You’re wrapped around him like a koala, arms tight around his torso, legs tangled with his beneath not one but two heavy blankets. Your face is tucked into his chest, breath slow and warm, completely unbothered by the cold thanks to your strategic use of him as a heat source.
Ah. That explains it.
When he tries to ease away, you immediately make a small, protesting sound—soft, sleepy, downright pitiful—and burrow closer, nose pressing into his collarbone. Your grip tightens.
“No,” you whine faintly, still half-asleep.
Mydei can’t help the quiet chuckle that escapes him. He bends his head and presses a kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
“I need to check on something real quick,” he murmurs.
You groan, displeased, but your arms loosen just enough for him to slip free. Before the cold can fully claim you, he tucks the blankets back around your shoulders with care, making sure every inch of you is cocooned, letting you steal the last of his warmth.
You mumble something unintelligible and immediately sink back into sleep.
He smiles despite himself.
Out in the living room, the cold is even more obvious. Mydei rubs at his arms as he grabs his phone, screen lighting up with a notification from the building admin. He scans the message once, then again, brows knitting.
Power interruption due to heavy snowfall. The entire building was affected. All three entrances were temporarily blocked.
He exhales slowly and massages his temple. Great.
Further down, the message continues—hot food will be provided for residents who signed up, with scheduled time slots by floor. He scrolls.
37th floor. Estimated time: one hour.
Another sigh. He glances toward the bedroom, toward you, still warm and unaware. An hour is a long time in this cold. And knowing you, you’ll wake up shivering and stubbornly refuse to move.
Decision made, he pockets his phone and heads to the kitchen.
Thank Nikador, he chose a gas range.
By the time you wake up, the apartment smells warm—rich, comforting, smelling unmistakably of food. You shuffle out of the bedroom bundled in an oversized sweater, hair a mess, eyes barely open.
“…Dei?” you call softly.
“Kitchen,” he answers, just loud enough.
You follow the sound and find him at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes. Steam curls lazily around him, and the sight alone makes you relax. Without a word, you step up behind him and slip your cold fingers around his shoulders.
He shivers at the sudden chill but only laughs, low and fond, when you go limp against him a second later, fully leaning your weight into his back.
“You’re freezing,” he says.
“You’re warm,” you reply, muffled against him.
He finishes up quickly, dries his hands, then reaches back to pat yours where they rest over his chest, “Time to eat.”
You nod against his spine before finally letting go.
Over what ends up being a very lazy brunch, he tells you about the power outage, the snowed-in entrances, the food schedule. You shiver just hearing about it.
“So,” he concludes, taking another bite, “we should probably stay in bed and keep warm.”
You don’t even pretend to hesitate, “Yes, please.”
The bed becomes your whole world again.
The curtains glow a soft, muted white from the snow piled outside, light diffused and gentle, like the morning itself has decided not to rush you. You’re tucked into Mydei’s side, your back to his chest, legs tangled together beneath layers of blankets that feel heavier now—but not heavy enough to replace him.
He’s propped against the headboard with a book in one hand, glasses low on his nose, utterly absorbed in whatever he’s reading. You have your own book open, but you’ve reread the same paragraph three times without actually processing a word.
The temperature is too confusing to think. Or maybe it’s too him.
His free hand rests at your waist at first, fingers absentminded, slow, as if they’re following thoughts he hasn’t bothered to voice. The warmth of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding and steady.
When his thumb brushes just slightly higher—bare skin this time—you suck in a quiet breath despite yourself.
It’s not intentional on his part, you tell yourself.
He’s always like this. Touchy in the way of someone who loves without realizing how much of himself he gives away through contact alone.
Still, the contrast does you in.
Outside cold presses against the windows like a living thing, sneaking through cracks no blanket can fully block. Your skin prickles, goosebumps rising along your arms even as his body heat wraps around you.
You shift unconsciously, trying to tuck yourself closer, chasing warmth that’s already there but never quite enough. Mydei’s hand pauses mid-drift.
“…You’re getting goosebumps,” he murmurs.
The words are low, almost amused, breath brushing the shell of your ear. You shrug weakly, teeth just barely chattering,“Well,” you mumble, “I’m cold.”
His hand stills completely.
For a moment, you think you imagined it—until he speaks again, voice lower, thoughtful, “I have an idea that could warm you up.”
He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, which is exactly why you notice the faint pink creeping up the tips of his ears. The sight alone makes your stomach flutter. Mydei clears his throat, shifting closer, chest pressing more firmly against your back.
One arm tightens around you, deliberate this time, pulling you fully into his warmth.
Your lips curve into a small smile as you scoot closer, pressing yourself fully against him.
“…Oh?” you tease.
“You trust me, yeah?” he adds, voice softer now.
Before you can even answer, his other hand slips beneath the blankets, warm and sure, spreading heat where you need it most. You let out a small, startled sound—half laugh, half gasp—and he chuckles quietly against your hair.
“Relax,” he murmurs, lips brushing your crown, “I’ve got you.”
And honestly?
With the storm outside, the power out, and nowhere else in the world you need to be—you do.