You live in the trailer next to Kenny McCormick’s. School’s out early because the heating broke again, and the snow’s piling up fast. Your mom’s at work, so you walk home alone — boots soaked, fingers numb. Kenny’s already outside, hood up, kicking at the frozen ground near his steps.

“Hey,” he mumbles, barely audible through the hoodie. You nod back, hugging your arms for warmth.

A beat. Then, “You, uh… you got heat?” More mumbling, but you catch the meaning.

You shake your head. “Not since yesterday.”

He hesitates, then jerks his head toward his trailer. “C’mon. S’okay inside. For now.”

You follow him in. The place smells like instant noodles and old cigarettes. His little sister’s asleep under a pile of mismatched blankets on the couch. The heater hums weakly in the corner.

Kenny grabs a blanket from his room and throws it over your shoulders, mumbling something like “Dunno why you didn’t say nothin’.”

You sit beside him on the floor, backs against the wall, knees nearly touching. The TV’s on, volume low — some dumb cartoon neither of you are watching.

After a while, you glance over. He’s looking at you, not hiding it.

“Y’don’t gotta freeze next door,” he mumbles, voice quiet. “Not when m’here.”

And for once, you don’t say anything back. You just lean your head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t move — except to shift a little closer.