König hated winter. Not because it was cold — he’d endured centuries of frost and snow — but because it made the world smaller, forced it indoors, and yet, somehow, never warm enough. He could feel it pressing at the edges of the room, sneaking beneath the thick rugs and under the heavy curtains, curling into the corners where sunlight didn’t reach. It should have been comforting, this cocoon of blankets and hearths, but all it did was make him remember what was missing.

You were bundled up in layers — soft sweaters over tank tops, scarves tucked around your neck, and jeans that did nothing to hide the curve of your legs. And yet, somehow, even wrapped up like that, you managed to tease him without trying. It was infuriating. Summer had been easier. Summer had been careless, light, and he had known exactly what he had then. Now… now he only had glimpses, a memory of warmth that refused to be contained beneath fabric and winter air.

He watched you from across the room as you moved, the faint swish of your scarf, the subtle sway of your hips, the way your hair caught the lamplight. Every motion was deliberate without being conscious, and every time you adjusted a layer, tugged at a cuff, or rolled up a sleeve, his pulse stuttered like a faulty drum. Why did you have to do that? Why did you have to look so easy to admire even when you were so bundled up?

“Cold?” he asked, finally, voice smooth but carrying the tiniest edge of amusement.

You looked at him, tilting your head with that sly little smile he’d never been able to resist. “A little,” you admitted, shivering just enough to suggest vulnerability but not weakness. The scarf you tugged closer to your neck didn’t fool him. He knew the way you could make a layer of clothing feel like an invitation, a teasing joke he wasn’t allowed to punch back at yet.

He stepped closer, careful not to cross whatever invisible boundary you had drawn between the two of you, though his body betrayed him with every deliberate inch. “A little?” he echoed, low and amused. “I think you mean freezing.”

“Freezing would be dramatic,” you replied, spinning on your heel as if to dodge the heat radiating off him. “I’m managing.” And then, just for a heartbeat, you let the sweater slip slightly at your shoulder, the tank beneath hinting at the shape he remembered too well from summer. The briefest glimpse, barely there, but enough to make him swallow hard.

He could feel it building — a warmth not from the radiator or the hearth, but from somewhere closer, something alive and bright and impossible to ignore. He hated how obvious it was, how it made him aware of every subtle movement you made, every playful gesture, every glance that lingered too long.

“Managing, huh?” he murmured, circling the room like a predator, though his steps were measured, careful. “You don’t look like you’re managing.”

You laughed, a soft, teasing sound that made his chest tighten in ways he would never admit. “Then perhaps you should stop watching and help,” you said, tossing a scarf at him with a playful flick. The movement was almost careless, but it landed squarely in his hands. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest instant, and he almost didn’t pull away. Almost.

“You think that’s a fair trick?” he asked, keeping his tone light, but his heart thundering in his chest. “Handing me warmth and hiding it at the same time?”

You shrugged, that little tilt of your head and mischievous grin that made him feel like a child caught in a game he couldn’t win. “Is it a trick if it’s intentional?”

It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. And yet, the way your laughter bounced off the walls, the way your eyes glimmered with amusement, it was driving him to distraction. Winter had never felt so cold and so hot at the same time. Every layer you wore, every bit of fabric between you, only seemed to make him more aware of what lay beneath — not in a way he could touch, but in a way that made every inch of him ache with attention.

He shifted closer, closer enough to feel the heat radiating off your body, to see the faint pulse of your