Your fingers are frozen, tucked into the sleeves of your coat, but Lip is completely unbothered by the cold. He’s leaning against the fence, cigarette between his lips, eyes glinting with amusement.

“You’re turning blue,” he teases.

You glare. “Some of us don’t have a nicotine addiction to keep us warm.”

He laughs, breath visible in the icy air. “Here.” He pulls his hands from his pockets and reaches for yours, shoving them between his palms. His fingers are rough but warm, and you try not to think too much about it.

“Better?” he asks, watching you.