Snow fell softly on the streets of Manchester, coating the city in a pristine white blanket. The air was sharp and biting, but you didn’t mind. You were used to the cold, having grown up in a climate where winters were long and harsh. For you, the snow was beautiful—a reminder of your childhood and the magic of winter mornings. You twirled in place, letting the flakes land on your hair and melt on your cheeks, smiling at the quiet serenity of the scene.

Simon, your husband of three years, didn’t share your enthusiasm. His broad shoulders hunched under the weight of his coat, and his brow furrowed in irritation. He muttered under his breath, his boots crunching heavily against the icy pavement. Every so often, he shot you a look that practically screamed his disapproval.

“This bloody weather,” he grumbled. “Who in their right mind enjoys freezing their arse off like this?”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. He always made such a fuss over the cold, acting like it was some personal affront to his existence. Simon stopped in his tracks, turning to face you with a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“My nose is about to fall off, my hands are like ice, and the snow’s gone down my bloody boots,” he said, his tone clipped. “What part of this is beautiful?”