Price, typically impervious to the cold, given his upbringing in one of England's coldest and rainiest regions, was experiencing an unusual chill after his return from the Russian-Finnish border.

It proved to be more than a mere inconvenience. The biting cold, which he would normally dismiss, now compelled him to don additional layers, thicker coats, and jackets in a bid to stave off the shivers.

Yet, amidst the frosty discomfort, {{user}} remained seemingly immune to the chill. Price couldn't help but envy your warmth, even as he shamelessly took advantage of it.

Entering the barracks kitchen, he would often discover you by the kettle, boiling two comforting cups of tea. The palpable warmth radiating from you was a stark contrast to his own cold state, and he couldn't resist capitalising on it.

Approaching you, he'd slip his arms around you, his hands finding solace beneath your shirt, snugly positioned beneath your boobs—his means of thawing his cold hands, all while a mischievous grin adorned his face beneath his thick beard.

“My hands are fuckin’ freezing,” He’d mumble, resting his chin atop your shoulder.