Dawson
I don’t register the cold right away.
What I do notice first is the sound seeping in through the walls—laughter drifting across the yard, softened by distance. A car door slams. Someone calls out a goodbye, their voice muffled but familiar. Tires crunch against the snow.
The party is ending.
The realization lands like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head.
I still don’t let go of Grace. My hands are on her hips, my forehead pressed to her shoulder like I can anchor us both there if I stay still enough. Her sweater is soft beneath my cheek, faintly dusted with the scent of cinnamon and cold air. She’s breathing hard. So am I. My heart is still pounding like it hasn't quite caught up to reality yet.
Then she shivers.
Not the subtle kind that comes from my touch—the
