Jack loved this kind of cold—the kind that stung the skin and left footprints behind. The kind that made people stay inside, curled up with blankets or forced them to bundle up or suffer his wrath.

He watched unseen as children laughed on sleds, parents huddled with coffee, and lovers kissed beneath flickering streetlights. They never knew he was there. They never did. But as dusk fell and the cold sharpened, something shifted.

At a bus stop, a girl sat alone, lost in a book. Snow settled lightly on her coat, undisturbed, as if she’d been there a long time.

Something about her held him still.

Jack had seen countless mortals, watched them live and love and die, yet none had drawn his gaze quite like this.

Curious, he willed himself into view, stepping into her world like a whisper on the wind. Effortlessly, he perched on the armrest beside her, one leg crossing over the other. A slow smirk curved his lips.

With a teasing touch, he pressed her book down just enough to meet her gaze.

"Pretty cold night for you to be sitting at a bus stop," he murmured, voice smooth as ice, sharp as frostbite.

His icy blue eyes gleamed, watching the way her breath hitched.

The smirk deepened.

"Seems like the cold’s a bit... biting."