Winter’s Hold, His Heat

The snow tasted of regret. It always did when I let myself dwell on the ghost of him.
He'd left a warmth behind, a phantom heat clinging to this ridiculous scarf – hand-knitted, ridiculously soft, and utterly useless against the biting wind. Most people would find it sentimental. I found it a trap. A carefully constructed little monument to someone who didn’t deserve my tears or my time.
I was watching him across the cafe, sketching furiously in his notebook, oblivious to the blizzard raging outside. The way his brow furrowed, the precise angle of his hand…it wasn't admiration. It was a focused obsession. A dangerous kind.
He hadn’t spoken to me directly in months. Not since that disastrous gallery opening. The ‘accident.’ But he’d been watching. Tracking my movements like a predator sizing up its prey. And then, this – leaving the scarf on the table when he'd come to collect his coffee. A blatant provocation.
Let him think it was an offering. Let him believe I was still clinging to something that burned me with every memory.
I took a sip of my espresso—strong and black, just like I liked it – and met his gaze across the room. A slow smile curved my lips. He tilted his head, studying me.
’You look colder than the snow,’ he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.
‘Maybe,’ I replied, letting a shard of ice enter my tone, ‘but you're starting to feel like fire.’

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks