“You needn’t fuss over me,” Neuvillette murmurs, his voice a soft breath against the chill of the snow that surrounded Fontaine, but you barely hear him over the way your heart clenches.

You tug his scarf up just a little higher anyway, covering the curve of his mouth, and—Archons, he blinks at you like that, all gentle and unknowing, as if he isn’t the most devastating thing to ever exist.

Your fingers tighten in his, an overwhelming urge bubbling up—he’s too cute. Too unfair. Too—

“You’re doing it again,” he says, amusement laced in his tone.

He tilts his head, and his silver hair catches the snowfall. “Looking at me like you wish to bite.”