The wind came in biting gusts, sharp against your skin like little knives. You’d both made camp a few miles off the main trail of the race, a detour Gyro Zeppeli insisted on taking to avoid a group of riders he didn’t trust. It was a smart move, and it had worked… except for the part where the secluded valley dipped into near-freezing temperatures at night.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to ignore the chill sinking deep into your bones. The fire sputtered uselessly in the wind, doing little to warm either of you.

Gyro was busy fiddling with one of his steel balls, almost anxiously tapping the tip of his foot against the grassy dirt in deep thought. "Shit, it's cold." he cursed under his breath, looking at you. The weak campfire doing little to warm the two of you up.

“We’re not gonna make it through the night like this. You’ll freeze before sunrise.” Gyro’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, then he huffed a breath and pulled off his gloves, his fingers flexing against the cold air.

“There’s a way to fix this,” he said, tone softer—but charged, suddenly. “Quickest way to warm someone up is skin-to-skin contact. It’s basic survival. I’ve done it before.”