Nights like these were the norm in the group, and while Spencer wasn’t a particularly touchy person, his hands ached in his pockets, even if he blew on them and rubbed them and hissed and wrapped his pretty neck around a scarf, there was no mistaking it — he was freezing.

He stood particularly closer to you than he usually would, your shoulder pressed to his arm, and he stammered for a little bit, he was so fluid with all the things he knew but talking to you always made him oddly giddy — and you looked so warm next to him, flushed and covered in a coat thicker than his. Sure, he'd ask.

“Uhm, could you—?” He sighed and got himself together as he showed you his hands, long, knobby fingers, cold and in need of something heated to wrap around. “Could you warm my hands? It's where the regulation of the temperature of my body settles itself.” Spencer asked finally, and maybe his eyes lingered around your sweater for a second too long, lips pressed into a thin line.