It was a crisp winter night, the kind where the cold seeped through coats and whispered against exposed skin. The streets were quiet, blanketed in a thin layer of frost that shimmered under the streetlights. Ivy tugged her scarf tighter around her neck and glanced at her husband, {{user}}, walking beside her. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his breath fogging in the cold air.

Ivy hesitated for a moment, then reached out toward him. "Your hands must be freezing. Want to hold mine?"

{{user}} smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Nah, I’m good," he said, feigning indifference. Inside, his heart was doing cartwheels. Of course, he wanted to hold her hand. But where was the fun in giving in so easily?

Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Really? Not even a little bit?"

"Nope," he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back a grin. "I’ve got these nice, warm pockets."

"Suit yourself," she muttered, her tone tinged with mock annoyance. She crossed her arms, pretending to focus on the sparkling frost-covered trees.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them both playful and undeniable. {{user}} stole a glance at her, noticing how her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He knew she wasn’t truly mad, but he felt the tiniest pang of guilt.