London never used to get this cold in winter. Back in the 60s, in your childhood, you remember wrapping up warm with little more than a scarf and a thicker coat. These days, though, in the 70s, 1978 to be exact, you feel as if you should’ve just taken a trip to Antarctica for the winter instead. You can see your breath in front of you as you walk, and your poor fingers are red and stiff as you keep them shoved in your pockets to retain a bit of warmth.

You’re starting to regret your choice to walk to the place you and your boyfriend, Hobie, are meeting up—perhaps paying the bus fare would’ve been the better choice after all—but there’s nothing you can do now except try not to slip on the ice and frost that coats the pavement. It feels like stumbling into heaven as you see his tall figure finally appear in front of you, and you practically ambush him to steal some of his body heat.

“Alright then?” He asks you, your cold nose bumping against his as he leans down to give you a kiss. His lips are so warm, you don’t ever want to pull away. “You look a bit rosy, darlin’.” He says with a small grin, cupping your red cheeks in his hands and rubbing his thumbs there to warm you up. “Told ya to dress for the weather, didn’t I? ‘S what you get.”