The voice was low, rough at the edges. You turned. He was already there, too close, a tall silhouette blocking the flickering light. He wore a heavy black leather jacket, unzipped over a dark sweater, and his hands were shoved into his pockets. Snowflakes caught in the messy black curls that fell across his forehead. His eyes, a startling, vivid green even in the poor light, held yours. Not apologetic. Assessing.

It wasn’t a question. He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the movement fluid and deliberate. He held it out to you, the leather looking worn and expensive.

Your numb fingers fumbled as you reached for it. Your hand brushed against his as you took the weight of the jacket. His skin was like ice. Not the sharp sting of winter cold, but a deep, unnatural chill, like marble left in a tomb. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you, his expression unreadable.