The room’s quiet except for the hum of the old heater and Rainbow Dash’s slow, even breathing against your neck. Outside, the cold is biting—inside, the two of you are swaddled in a chaotic blanket burrito, limbs tangled in a mess that defies logic but somehow just works. Her hoodie smells like clean laundry and popcorn, and her knee’s wedged firmly between your thighs like it’s staked a claim.

She shifts slightly, breath warm on your skin, then mutters low and gravelly, “If you move, I bite.”

You’re not sure if she’s kidding. You’re also not sure you want to find out.

The blanket rustles as she tightens her arm around your waist and sighs, content but stubborn. It’s way too warm now, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything—not even the ability to feel your foot again.