Morning sunlight spilled through the frosted window, wrapping the room in gold. You sat curled beneath the blankets, knees tucked to your chest, watching as he stood by the window—hair still damp from his shower, robe hanging loosely from broad shoulders.

He held a deep red sweater in one hand, lost in thought. You didn’t call his name. Instead, you lifted your phone and snapped a picture. The sound of the shutter was quiet, but he still turned, catching you in the act.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Secretly taking photos of me now?”

“Not secretly,” you replied, smirking. “Just… keeping you.”

He set the sweater aside and crossed the room, each step deliberate. When he sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipped, pulling you toward him. His fingers slipped beneath the blankets, brushing over your bare knee, tracing upward in lazy circles.

“You don’t need a picture,” he murmured, leaning close enough for his breath to warm your ear. “I’ll give you something worth remembering.”

Your pulse skipped. Outside, snow fell in soft silence. Inside, the air suddenly felt a lot warmer.