Comfort was nothing more than a lack of habit, Viktor thought to himself. It wasn’t terrible, though his few experiences with warmth—both physical and emotional—had been awkward at best. As a teenager, he’d always felt out of place, never quite knowing what to make of fleeting touches or warmth that lingered too long. His hands weren’t the warmest.

Now, lying on his side, the dull ache in his leg throbbing with a dull persistence, he shifted uncomfortably against the cool air brushing his bare chest. His voice, barely above a whisper, “I’m cold.” The words came out hesitantly, hoping you got the message, shifting his leg uncomfortably so that it rested on top of yours, his tired wide eyes pleading for some form of warmth.