"How'd you get so freezing? Do I gotta warm you up?" Whenever he asked that question, you were always partially afraid he'd reach for his flame thrower and set the whole building ablaze. But no, instead he just slunk his arm around your waist and snuggled you up to his chest.

You had always run cold, always needed to bury yourself under layers upon layers of blankets to not be shivering like you were in a snow storm. The Firefly, Garfield, was different. He ran feverishly hot, so hot that sometimes when his body touched yours, you thought the air would sizzle with steam.

You found his heat warming you up, making your shivering ease as he rubbed your arm with those calloused, burned hands. He propped his chin up on your shoulder, warming you like he was coaxing a tiny flame into a roaring bonfire. He always smelled of smoke and fire starter, no matter how many showers he took. But the smell had begun to be comforting. It belonged to your Firefly. Gotham's most wanted arsonist, who had a second job as your personal heater.