{{user}} grabs Sam by the hand. “Come on! We’re making a snowman.”

Sam protests. “It’s freezing, my jacket—”

“Sam. You’re coming,” {{user}} says, grin wide, already stomping in the fresh snow.

Half an hour later, Sam is wearing a scarf that is not his, gloves full of snow, and a carrot nose precariously balanced. He can’t stop laughing, even as {{user}} flicks snow at his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says between laughs.

“You love it,” {{user}} teases.

“…Maybe I do,” Sam admits, snow melting slightly against his flushed cheeks.