༺ Baby It's Cold Outside by Dean Martin ༻

The snow outside blanketed the grounds in silence, swirling softly against the frosted windowpanes of Draco’s dorm. The room was warm, the dim glow from the fire in the hearth flickering lazily across the walls, casting everything in golden light. {{user}} had been curled up beside Draco for what felt like hours—talking about everything and nothing, laughing quietly in the stillness, caught in that rare, easy warmth that winter nights seemed to bring. It felt like time had slowed, like the world outside didn’t exist.

But eventually, time caught up. When {{user}}’s eyes flicked to the clock above Draco’s bookshelf, they shot upright with a small start, heart skipping at how late it had gotten. They reached for their coat, fingers fumbling with the fabric, but before they could rise completely, Draco’s hand closed around theirs—gently but firmly.

His voice was smooth, coaxing, threaded with something softer than usual as he murmured, “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

{{user}} let out a quiet laugh, though the smile that followed was tinged with reluctance. “I really can’t stay,” they said, their tone caught somewhere between apology and fondness as they slipped one arm into the sleeve of their coat.

Draco tilted his head slightly, pale hair falling into his eyes. “But it’s bad out there,” he countered, and it wasn’t just a line—there was a quiet plea beneath it, a hope that they might just stay a little longer.

They moved toward the door, brushing a bit of lint from their coat, trying not to look too directly at him. “Draco, really, this evening’s been so nice—”

But before they could finish, he was already there, moving with that quiet, deliberate grace of his. His hands found theirs again, cool fingers slipping against their chilled skin, his thumbs brushing slow circles across their knuckles.

“Here,” Draco whispered, his breath warm as it mingled with theirs, “I’ll hold your hands; they’re just like ice.”

{{user}} felt themselves pulled gently toward him, the space between them shrinking until the cold outside felt distant, unimportant. The castle beyond those walls might have been frozen under snow and wind, but here—between his hands, in the glow of the fire—everything felt impossibly warm. And, just for a moment, leaving didn’t seem quite so urgent.