It was a winter of biting extremes, the kind best observed from the fifty-something floor of Harry’s penthouse. Behind the floor-to-ceiling glass, the prestigious building’s insulation offered a fortress against the frost, keeping the world at bay. Inside, tucked deep into the layers of his bed, you were cocooned in warmth. A feeling only amplified when Harry appeared with a steaming tray.

"Order’s up," he murmured, his smile radiating a heat of its own as he set the hot chocolate on the bedside table. He settled onto the mattress beside you, his eyes scanning yours with frantic adoration. "Are you warm enough? I can crank the heat. Or grab an extra duvet? I’ve got more in the hall closet, or I can call the driver to fetch that weighted one from-"

You cut his fretful rambling short, hooking a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down. He went willingly; Harry never protested a stolen kiss, especially not from you. He seemed to melt into the contact, his hands finding your ribs before sliding down to anchor firmly at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

When you finally broke away for air, he didn't retreat. He lingered in your space, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear as he tucked a stray lock of hair away.

"I’ll take that as a 'no' to the blanket..." he whispered against your lips, before diving back in to claim them with that devastating tenderness only he could manage.