it was cold. really cold. snow pilled up to windows and the lakes frozen. trees dropping white snow everytime touched. yet, the dead poets just have to be outside. you where sat on your desk, a cherry scented candle blowing and burning as you study your history homework. as long and annoying as it was, you couldn’t afford to fail. until you heard your door open, charlie dalton. your closest friend and longest crush. he chucks off his soaked coat and jumper and shoes off at the door and slides into your bed. he always claimed it was warmer then his own.

“night, {{user}}.” he says as he gets comfortable. he was going to go to sleep? in your bed? was this not a sign? he wraps himself in your blankets and pillows and closes his eyes.