#snowbound

She followed, boots crunching softly through old snow packed hard beneath the trees. The forest gathered close around them—pines bowed under white weight, branches shedding glittering sighs whenever the wind threaded through. The air smelled sharp and evergreen, clean enough to sting, the kind of cold that slid beneath wool and lingered stubbornly at the wrists.

Leonardo walked a few paces ahead, hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders loose, humming a tune that refused to settle into any recognizable shape. It rose and fell with his steps, languid and calm—like everything else about him.

She knew better than to walk beside him.

Not because he’d never asked—he had—but because standing too close made her uncomfortably aware of herself. Of the way his presence seemed to bend the space around him. Of how easily he inhabited the world, while she felt like she was always measuring her steps, careful not to leave too deep an imprint beside his.

So she stayed half a pace behind.

She told herself it was politeness. Or practicality.

But it was really the way her breath betrayed her when he slowed. The way her attention caught on the slope of his shoulders, the quiet confidence in his stride. The way wanting him felt like holding something warm in bare hands for too long—beautiful, and faintly painful.

When his coat shifted with his step, when the hem brushed snow and sent pale crystals scattering, her fingers curled reflexively inside her gloves. Not reaching. Never reaching. Just tightening, as if resisting the foolish urge to steady herself on him—to pretend, even briefly, that she belonged at his side.

So she watched him when he didn’t know she was watching.

When something caught his interest, his body answered before his thoughts fully formed—stride lengthening, weight rolling forward with intent. His head tipped as he walked, listening, eyes narrowing as if the forest were confiding in him alone.

He stopped abruptly at a frozen stream, boots skidding just enough to scatter powder. Without hesitation, he crouched, coat pooling around him, gloved fingers brushing the ice. He traced a fracture gently, following its branching lines like veins beneath skin.

“Do you hear it?” he asked, not looking up.

She stepped closer, breath spilling white between them, the cold biting softly at the back of her throat. The wind pressed low through the trees, a sound like something inhaling and refusing to let go.

Her shoulders lifted slightly inside her coat as she listened, fingers tightening at her scarf.

“It sounds…” She shifted her weight, gaze flicking from the ice to him. “…like it’s holding its breath.”

Leonardo straightened, the motion smooth, delighted laughter warming the space between them. He turned toward her fully, eyes warm and intent—gold-bright, amused in that way that always felt like he was letting her in on a private joke.

Instead of answering at once, he reached out. His thumb brushed a stray fleck of snow from her cheek, lingering a breath longer than necessary. The touch was light, unthinking—like adjusting a detail that had caught his eye mid-thought—yet his gaze flicked to her eyes as he did it, attentive, curious, as though quietly noting what the contact set in motion. 

“Now that,” he said softly, approval threading his voice, “is a conclusion worth keeping.”

Her breath caught—not sharply, just enough to steal its rhythm. The place he’d touched seemed to echo, warmth blooming beneath the cold as her pulse skidded and recovered. She told herself it was nothing. Just snow. Just his hand. Still, her weight shifted without permission, heel grinding lightly into the crusted earth as if to anchor herself.

His hand fell back to his side.

But his attention didn’t.

His gaze lingered, thoughtful now, searching her face as if she’d said—or revealed—something unexpectedly precious. There was a faint narrowing of his eyes, not amusement this time but interest, as though he’d noticed the way color had risen beneath the cold, the way her fingers curled inside her gloves.

Heat crept up beneath her collar despite the winter air, fluttering low and quick like something startled awake. She busied herself tugging her glove tighter, fussing with the seam, hoping motion might disguise how his quiet attention unsettled her—how easily he made her feel both seen and impossibly outmatched.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, a crooked little smile tugging at her mouth. “You always do that when I say something ridiculous.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly delighted.

In response—and because standing still beneath that look felt dangerous—she nudged his arm with her elbow, light but deliberate.

Leonardo stumbled half a step, boots sliding, then caught himself with an easy laugh. He looked down at her, brow lifting, amusement softening into something warmer. “Careful, I bruise artistically.”

Snow drifted loose from the branches above them, dusting his shoulders, catching in his hair. She smiled before she could stop herself—small, unguarded—and the moment settled around them, quiet and white and suspended, like the world had briefly forgotten how to move.

Winter was like that. 

It softened everything sharp without asking permission. Gave her room to breathe. In the hush of snow and muted color, she felt less conspicuous—edges blurred, expectations lowered. Cold asked nothing of her except presence. Stillness was allowed here. Even loneliness felt gentler, wrapped in white.

The light shifted gradually—nothing dramatic, just the sense of the world dimming at its edges. Shadows thickened between the trees. The pale winter blue of the sky sank toward a thoughtful gray.

Leonardo slowed.

Not stopped—slowed. His gaze lifted, eyes narrowing slightly, one gloved hand rising as if to shield them, though the sun was already retreating. He lingered there longer than before, listening, head tipped as if the air itself were reporting in.

Snow began to fall.

Fine and fast, stitching the air with white. It gathered almost immediately—settling in her hair, clinging to the dark wool of Leonardo’s coat. He turned toward her, a spark of something alert and pleased lighting his expression, like a problem unexpectedly offering itself.

“Well,” he murmured. “That’s early.”

She rubbed her hands together, breath fogging thicker now. “You didn’t mention snow.”

“I didn’t expect it to be rude,” he said lightly, already reaching into his coat.

A small notebook appeared in his hand, pages fluttering as he flipped through them, thumb moving with practiced ease despite the cold. Snow caught in his lashes; he blinked it away absently. The sight of him like this—unbothered, intent, beautiful in that effortless way—sent a quiet ache through her chest. She looked away before the warmth in her face could betray her.

The wind rose—sharp and sudden, biting through fabric and resolve alike.

She sucked in a breath, shoulders hunching instinctively as cold curled around her wrists and ankles, finding every careless gap. Leonardo noticed immediately. He always did.

Before she could speak, he shrugged out of his coat and stepped closer, draping it over her shoulders.

The weight of it settled immediately. Warmth spread along her arms and across her back. It carried his scent with it: linseed oil and mineral pigments, the faint metallic tang of tools, a whisper of smoke from the cigarillos he favored when thinking too long into the night. It smelled like work. Like focus. Like him.

His hands lingered just long enough to pull the collar closer. As he adjusted her scarf, his knuckles brushed the soft skin beneath her jaw by accident.

Something low and unsteady stirred in her chest. Not a gasp—just a quiet hitch, like her body had momentarily forgotten its rhythm. She reached out without thinking, fingers closing around his forearm, stopping him mid-motion.

“No,” she said, softer than intended. “Leonardo, you’ll—”

“I won’t. I run warm,” His smile creased gently at the corners, eyes warm with easy certainty. “Too much thinking.”

The words were light, teasing, but his hands were careful as he made sure the coat sat properly on her shoulders. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, gaze dropping, one hand smoothing the fabric at her chest as if anchoring herself there.

The wind tugged loose strands of her hair free. She lifted a hand to tame them, movements clumsy with cold.

Leonardo’s attention followed the motion—caught, held—and for a fleeting, dangerous heartbeat she let herself imagine it meant something. She wondered if he noticed how often her hands trembled near him. Then she reminded herself, firmly, that he watched the world this way. With curiosity. With care. Never possession. Certainly not desire.

He turned and started forward again, pace slower now. He glanced back more often, waiting when the path narrowed, adjusting instinctively to her steps.

Snow thickened quickly. The trail vanished beneath fresh powder, the forest drawing close, hushed and watchful.

Her boot slid.

Leonardo was there instantly. His hand closed around her elbow, steady and warm, pulling her just close enough to stop the fall. “Careful.” His voice lowered as he spoke, breath brushing near her ear. “I need you intact.”

The words lingered—unintended, she was sure, but no less felt. For a moment, the cold ceased to matter at all.

A cabin appeared almost suddenly—a squat structure of dark wood tucked against the slope, roof already crowned with snow. Leonardo let out a quiet sound of recognition and quickened his pace.

“Ah,” he said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Just where I remembered.”

Inside, the air was sharp with trapped cold, deeper for its stillness. Dust stirred as they entered, lantern light swinging weakly from its hook. The space was spare: a small cot, a rough table, one chair, and a stone hearth choked with old ash.

Leonardo moved at once. Gloves off. Sleeves pushed back. He knelt by the hearth and worked with practiced ease—clearing ash, stacking kindling, coaxing flame from flint and patience. She hovered nearby, stamping her feet, rubbing her hands together, breath coming a touch faster now.

The fire caught reluctantly—a thin ribbon of orange that barely pushed back the cold. Leonardo leaned back on his heels and exhaled.

“That will help,” he said. “…Eventually.”

Snow rattled against the shutters like impatient fingers. Wind threaded through the cracks, a low whistle running along the walls. She pulled his coat tighter around herself, shoulders trembling despite her efforts to still them.

Leonardo noticed.

His gaze dropped—not to her face, but to her hands. The way they shook. The way she tucked them beneath her arms, as if hiding them might make the cold less real. His mouth shifted, something thoughtful passing over his expression.

He crossed the room in three strides and stopped in front of her.

“You’re colder than you should be,” he said, reaching out—then stopping himself, hand hovering near her cheek.

After a beat, he let his fingers brush the side of her neck instead, just beneath her ear. The touch was light, assessing. His thumb moved once, slow and absent, warming skin already flushed from cold.

“I’m fine,” she replied automatically.

Her teeth betrayed her with a faint click.

His brow knit, concern breaking through his usual ease. His hand lingered a second longer, then fell away.

“That,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes, “is not fine.”

The space between them felt suddenly dense, thick with smoke and warmth and the echo of his touch. She shifted her weight, boots scraping softly against the floor, unsure where to put herself now that standing near him felt like standing too close to a fire.

Leonardo stepped back half a pace, gaze flicking to the hearth, then to the narrow cot. “The storm will pass. Sooner or later.”

The wind slammed into the cabin, shutters rattling hard. The fire bent low, flame shivering.

Leonardo watched it, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“…Later,” he amended.

She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering now in earnest. The cold pressed closer, intimate and insistent. Leonardo swore softly in Italian, the words quick and sharp, and crossed the room at once.

He dragged the cot closer to the hearth, wood legs scraping against stone. Sparks jumped as he nudged it nearer the fire, close enough to steal what warmth it could give without courting danger. Only then did he reach for the blankets folded at its foot.

There were two. One thin and worn, edges frayed with age. The other heavier—patched, faded, but whole. Serviceable. The kind of blanket that had seen winters and survived them.

He lifted the thinner one first, holding it for a moment, eyes tracking its threadbare spots as if waiting for it to offer absolution. His jaw tightened, just slightly. Then his attention shifted—to her.

Not playful now. Not distracted. He stood still, shoulders squared, gaze steady and intent, like a man quietly committing to a solution.

“Come here,” he said.

Not a command. Not a question. The words landed with the quiet certainty of something already decided.

Leonardo snapped the thin blanket open and spread it across the cot, the fabric stirring dust into the lantern light. Ash sighed softly from the hearth as he smoothed it flat, movements careful, deliberate—an arrangement made with purpose, as though order itself might ward off the cold.

“There,” he said, glancing from the fire to the walls, calculating. “We’ll improve our odds.”

“Our odds of what?” she asked, her teeth threatening to chatter despite her effort to steady them.

He tipped his head, considering. “Remaining…mostly comfortable.”

She huffed a quiet breath of laughter and stepped closer anyway. The floorboards were colder near the hearth than she’d expected, chill seeping through her soles even with her boots on. She shifted her weight, arms still wrapped tight around herself.

Leonardo’s gaze tracked the motion—not her face, but her shoulders. The way they crept upward, betraying her.

“Cara mia,” he murmured, tone light but threaded with care. “You’re allowed to admit defeat to the weather. It’s very persuasive.”

“I’m not defeated,” she said—even as her hands shook.

His smile came slow and indulgent. “Mm. Brave words.”

He gestured toward the cot. “Sit. Before your knees start making executive decisions.”

She hesitated only a second before lowering herself onto the edge. The mattress dipped beneath her. Leonardo followed a beat later, settling beside her—not crowding, but close enough that she felt the heat of him through wool and air.

Just enough.

He bent forward, unlacing her boots with efficient fingers, easing them off one by one and setting them carefully near the cot’s edge. Then he guided her feet up, placing them beside him on the mattress, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

The heavier blanket came down over them next—warm with lingering dust, faintly scented of old wood and smoke. He tucked it around her shoulders first, fingers brushing her sleeve as he adjusted it.

“There,” he said softly. “Better.”

It was. A little.

The cold still found its way in—threading along the edges, curling beneath the blanket like a thing unwilling to be shut out. She drew her knees closer, toes pressing into the mattress, hands still tucked beneath her arms.

Leonardo shifted beside her, subtly, angling himself to block the draft without comment. The fire cracked low and steady, light trembling across the walls, across his hands, across the careful space he left between them.

For now.

Leonardo leaned back on his palms, gaze drifting toward the fire as though checking on an experiment already underway. Firelight climbed him in slow strokes—caught along the sharp line of his cheekbone, softened at his mouth, threaded gold through the loose fall of his hair. Shadow pooled at his throat, then broke again at the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looked impossibly at ease there, half-lit and half-kept by darkness, like someone the cold had learned not to challenge.

“Body heat,” he said mildly. “Remarkably efficient. More so than flame in small, poorly insulated structures.”

She glanced sideways at him. The sight of him like this—warmth carved out of fire and shadow—made something low and restless stir in her chest.

“Are you…giving a lecture?” she asked.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Too much effort. People don’t listen.”

He shifted—barely more than a redistribution of weight. Their shoulders brushed. Wool compressed; heat bled through layers. Her breath went shallow before she could stop it, pulse suddenly loud in her ears. She fixed her gaze on the fire, acutely aware of the narrow line where they touched.

Leonardo’s hand tightened on the mattress beside him, fingers dimpling the fabric. “Of course,” he went on lightly, “it requires proximity. Which can be… inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” she echoed.

“Mmm.” He turned then, eyes bright with something playful. “If you prefer, we can remain stoic.”  The grin he gave her was quick and unapologetic—almost flirtatious. “And cold.”

Another gust struck the cabin. The fire bent low, sputtering. She shivered hard enough that the blanket slipped from her shoulder.

Leonardo noticed at once.

His hand lifted—stalled halfway—then continued, tugging the blanket back into place. His knuckles brushed her collarbone, warm and steady.

“Or,” he added, “we can be practical.”

She swallowed. “Practical how?”

He shifted again—this time unmistakably closer. His thigh pressed against hers, firm and warm. Relief bloomed so fast it startled her.

“Like this,” he said.

The word was gentle. Almost apologetic.

Her body hesitated—not rigid, just unsure. Leonardo felt it immediately. He stilled, breath evening, attention sharpening as his gaze lifted to her face.

“You can tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “I won’t argue.”

She looked down at where their legs touched. Then back up at him.

Firelight painted his face in amber and shadow, catching on the curve of his cheek, the thoughtful line of his mouth. Snow whispered against the shutters, steady and distant, like the world keeping time.

“I’m just cold,” she said, fingers tightening in the blanket as if bracing against herself as much as the chill.

His mouth softened—relief easing into his features, shoulders loosening a fraction. “That makes two of us.”

He eased his coat and hers from her shoulders, careful not to jostle her, folding them aside so the warmth between them had nothing left to fight through. Then his hands settled at her waist as he guided her onto his lap, facing him.

Her knees settled on either side of his hips. She hovered for a heartbeat—then let herself lower. Heat rose at once, solid and unmistakable, pressing into her palms, her thighs, the hollow of her stomach.

She looked up. His face was suddenly so close. Firelight traced him in warm strokes—the thoughtful line between his brows, warmed the curve of his mouth, the steady, golden focus of his gaze as it lingered on her. The nearness unraveled her breath, leaving it tangled in her throat.

“For warmth,” he added lightly, though his gaze studied her as if he were checking more than temperature. “It’s the most efficient arrangement.”

“Is that so?” she said, lifting her chin just a little, summoning courage she didn’t quite feel. “You sound very certain.”

“I usually am,” he replied.

As he spoke, his fingers lifted and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that made her chest tighten. His hand lingered there for just a moment, before drifting away. Her chin tipped toward his touch without permission, a small, traitorous motion she corrected at once, shoulders settling as she forced herself still.

“About things that can be measured,” he said, quieter now, eyes narrowing slightly as if the thought genuinely troubled him.

“And me?”

He hesitated—not with words, but with his breath—then smiled, small and almost rueful. “You’re…still under observation.”

Her chest tightened, breath slipping shallow as something hopeful stirred—small, foolish, bright. Observation. Not dismissal. Not indifference. Just…attention.

She hated how much that mattered to her. Hated that part of her that wanted to lean into the space between his words and pretend it meant more than it did.

She stayed still instead, letting logic settle back into place.

It’s how he looks at everything, she reminded herself. With interest. With care. Never with desire.

The blanket shifted as he adjusted it around them, tugging it closer. His arms came fully around her now, drawing her in until there was no question where she belonged. He held her there until the faint tremor in her shoulders eased.

“There,” he murmured near her ear. “See? Already improving.”

The sound of his voice that close sent a low shiver through her, warmth flowing where it had no business being. She loved this—this excuse, this closeness, the way his presence wrapped around her like shelter. Loved him, quietly and fiercely, in a way she never dared name aloud.

And with the same breath, the old thought followed:

He could never love you like that.

Not someone like you.

She swallowed it down, letting logic steady her where hope threatened to rise.

She shifted slightly, cheek grazing his collarbone before settling more fully against his chest. The movement felt deliberate, casual—something she could pretend was nothing more than comfort.

“You say that,” she murmured, lips curving as she reached for humor like a handhold, “as though I’m a particularly stubborn equation you’ve finally cracked.”

The words were light. The warmth in her chest was not.

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound vibrating faintly through him. “Hardly. Problems eventually stop resisting.”

She tipped her head just enough to look up at him. “And am I resisting?”

His gaze flicked to her eyes, then her mouth—back up again, quick but telling. “You’re…considering.”

She narrowed her eyes, scrunching her nose in faint protest. “I’m not sure I like being studied.”

His response came with a small shift closer, the warmth of him pressing in just a fraction more than before. His eyes softened—golden in the firelight, amused and unmistakably fond—as if her indignation delighted him more than it should have.

“I know,” he said easily. “That’s why I don’t tell you when I’m doing it.” The corner of his mouth tipped upward, conspiratorial. “It tends to spoil the observation.”

Color crept up her neck despite the cold.

Does he watch me often? The thought fluttered bright and foolish—and she pressed it down at once, schooling her breathing.

This was for warmth. For survival. Nothing more.

She allowed herself to rest more fully against him, breathing him in. Her cheek settled against his chest again, his scent surrounding her—smoke-soft and clean, touched with something earthy beneath it. She could feel his breathing now, slow and even, the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek.

Her body answered—warmth spreading through her chest, down her spine, pooling low and steady.

“So,” she said quickly, the word rushed, as if speed might save her, “what’s the verdict?” 

He drew in a careful breath, arms tightening just a fraction. “You’re warmer.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He spoke close, breath warm in her hair as his chest lifted beneath her cheek. A quiet hum of amusement traveled through him before the words did.

“You’re also…distracting.”

Her heart tripped over itself at the sound of it, the way his voice seemed to settle directly against her skin. “That sounds like a flaw.”

“It is,” he said gently, the humor thinning just enough to show the truth beneath, “if I indulge it.” The teasing had returned —soft, deliberate—like a step back toward safer ground.

She shifted her arm without thinking. Her hand sliding to his chest—lingering. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat answered, steady and undeniable, a rhythm that traveled straight up her arm. Her fingers tightened into his shirt before she could gather them back, knuckles warming against the fabric.

Leonardo drew a careful breath.

His arm firmed at her back, thumb pressing lightly into her side, anchor them both. He didn’t ask her to stop or move her hand away.

The fire spoke into the silence with a soft crackle, light shivering across the walls. Outside, the wind howled at the cabin, snow whispering against wood and stone.

She shifted again, easing the ache in her legs. Her knees slid closer, her weight settling more fully into his lap, heat blooming where their bodies met.

Leonardo’s body answered at once. His hold stayed steady, but his free hand flexed against her back, fingers spreading, then settling again as if testing his own restraint. His jaw tightened; a breath lodged briefly in his chest before he forced it out.

“Cara mia,” he murmured near her ear—low, roughened, stripped of humor. “If you keep doing that…”

Her heart kicked hard. She lifted her face toward him. “I’m sorry—I—”

“No.” He shook his head once, slow and deliberate. His eyes were darker now, focused—not on her exactly, she told herself, but on the moment, the closeness, the problem he was trying not to solve. His mouth parted as if he might say more, then pressed shut again, control reasserting itself. “Don’t.”

His gaze dropped—to where her body pressed closer than before—then lifted again, steady and unreadable. Whatever easy distance he usually kept had narrowed, sharpened into something more deliberate, as though he were measuring the moment rather than giving in to it.

“Just…be aware,” he finished quietly.

She nodded. 

They stayed there, wrapped together, breath threading the narrow space between them. The cold retreated by degrees, pushed back by the fire and the heat they were making without admitting it.

Leonardo’s thumb began to move—slow, absent circles at her back. He didn’t seem to notice.

Or perhaps he noticed and chose not to stop.

She noticed she wasn’t shivering anymore only when she realized how still she’d become.

Her head shifted, cheek settling into the warm hollow at his throat. The edge of his collarbone brushed the corner of her mouth. His heartbeat was clearer here—steady, grounding, too close to ignore.

“Leonardo?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Do you do this sort of thing often?”

His thumb stilled. “No,” he said after a breath. “But I find I don’t object.”

She smiled faintly against his skin. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It’s honest.” 

As he spoke, his hand slid down to her wrist, fingers closing there with gentle certainty—as if anchoring both of them in place. His thumb traced once over her pulse before stilling.

“And honesty,” he added softly, “seems appropriate… given our proximity.”

Her chest tightened, something hopeful and foolish stirring there before she could stop it. She reminded herself, sharply, of the distance between them. Of who he was. Of how easily she could be misplaced in his orbit.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose it does.”

She shifted again, easing the strain in her neck. Her mouth ended up nearer his jaw than she intended—warm breath brushing skin. Her hands followed instinct before thought could intervene, sliding from the blanket to his chest. She felt the solid heat there, the steady rise beneath her palms, and before she could stop herself her arms settled around him, light but unmistakable, as if testing the shape of him.

The closeness tugged at her—gentle at first, then insistent. Her body leaned in the way it had learned not to, fitting itself against his warmth with a quiet inevitability. Want flared, sharp and sudden, a feeling she’d spent so long folding away until it startled her now, slipping loose in the hush of firelight and snow.

Leonardo’s breath lengthened.

Not enough to be obvious—just a careful adjustment, a deliberate slowing she felt beneath her palms before she saw it. His shoulders eased back against the stone wall, as if he were grounding himself there.

“Careful,” he murmured again. The word was lighter than before, but the smile that shaped it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She tipped her head back a fraction, just enough to see him. Their faces were close now—close enough that she could count his breaths, close enough that firelight caught and held in his gaze, shadow carving the line of his mouth deeper.

“I am being careful,” she said, steady despite herself.

His eyes lowered—drawn, reluctant—tracking the curve of her mouth before lifting again with visible effort.

“Mmm,” he said quietly. “I suspect we’re using the word differently.”

His hand slid to the nape of her neck, warm and sure as he drew the blanket back into place around her shoulders. The motion was practical. The touch was not. His thumb lingered where her neck curved into her shoulder, pressing lightly—as if memorizing the place before he let it go.

She swallowed. Heat gathered low and insistent, spreading in slow, quiet waves that had nothing to do with the fire. Her chest felt too full, her skin too awake, every place he touched answering before she could think to stop it.

“Leonardo.”

“Yes?”

“You’re…very warm.”

A soft breath of laughter left him, more exhale than sound, stirring the loose hair near her temple. “I did warn you.”

She smiled faintly, shifting just enough to settle more comfortably, letting her weight sink where it had already decided to be. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

“Never,” he said, solemn as a vow. Then, lighter, “Well. Rarely.”

The playfulness returned—but thinned now, stretched taut over something humming beneath it, like a wire drawn too tight.

He shifted, easing his head back against the stone wall and bringing her with him, keeping her anchored against his chest. The stone met him cool and solid; her body absorbed the warmth he displaced. For a moment his eyes stayed closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, as if he were counting something inwardly.

His hand drifted into her hair, fingers threading through it with absent care. The touch was unthinking. And devastating. She closed her eyes at once, leaning into it, her forehead tipping slightly toward his collarbone, as though her body had been waiting for permission. She let herself take it in the way one takes in heat after cold—slowly, greedily, afraid it might vanish.

“You know,” he said lightly, though his voice had lowered, softened, “this is a poor arrangement.”

She opened one eye, arching a brow without lifting her head. “You just called it efficient.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth curved, the corner lifting above her line of sight. “Thermally.”

“And otherwise?”

Beneath the blanket, his shoulder rolled in a small, careless shrug that didn’t quite convince. “The rest depends on one’s tolerance for risk,” he said.

Then—quieter now, more precise, as if naming something fragile—“I’m… less certain about the outcome.”

His hand rose between them, fingers hovering close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin before it ever touched her. The firelight caught along his knuckles, the faint tremor there betraying the control beneath the calm. His hand hovered near her face, giving her time to pull back, to choose. 

When she didn’t, his fingertips brushed the line of her jaw and settled there, warm and sure, thumb resting at the corner of her mouth.

She tipped into his touch, cheek fitting instinctively into his palm, lashes lowering as if the world had narrowed to this one point of contact. Her breath slipped out unevenly, warmth spreading everywhere his hand held her.

The sensation hit her all at once—bright and disorienting. Relief tangled with fear, hope flaring sharp enough to hurt. Her heart stumbled, then surged, as if it had finally found its rhythm again.

“You can still tell me to stop.” His voice came lower now, roughened by proximity. 

She lifted her gaze to his.

Firelight lived in his eyes—darkened now, intent, stripped of playfulness. There was want there. Care. Desire. A question held open far longer than he usually allowed.

She shook her head once, breath shallow between them.

“I don’t want you to.”

Something shifted in his face—quiet, unmistakable. Like a door easing open just enough to let the cold rush out and the light rush in.

“Cara mia…”

His thumb pressed more firmly at her jaw, as if confirming that she was still there, still choosing this.

He leaned in. Not all at once, but with the slow certainty of snowdrifts against a roof—inevitable, inching closer, until resistance surrendered. Just enough that his forehead brushed hers, a soft nudge that moved the air from between them. Their breath tangled—hers quick and shallow, his slower but no longer untouched by strain—until the space between their mouths thinned to nothing but warmth and waiting.

She tilted her chin with the vulnerability of instinct, lips already parted on a silent inhale.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His mouth met hers gently at first, almost cautiously—like he was learning the shape of something precious, something he’d never meant to want but now refused to deny. The kiss was tender and unhurried, a careful press and pause, his lips lingering just long enough for the absence to ache before he returned.

A small, imperfect sound escaped her—caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. Her arms tightened around his neck, drawing him closer, fingers curling into his hair as she met him again—this time with intention. Her lips parted—welcoming, wanting—and the kiss deepened by degrees, as if neither of them quite trusted the moment to last.

Something in him gave.

Leonardo made a low sound at the back of his throat—surprised, undone. His hand slid fully into her hair, fingers spreading at her nape as he drew her closer with unmistakable desire. The kiss turned urgent—no longer testing, no longer careful—heat and devotion braided together as his mouth moved against hers with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable.

The newness of it—the certainty, the absence of reservation—sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with cold.

Her hands moved of their own accord, one sliding to the sharp line of his jaw, thumb brushing the faintest stubble there. She felt him smile against her mouth—just a flicker—before his lips pressed more firmly against hers.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was with the reluctance of someone surfacing from deep water. For a heartbeat they hovered there, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in uneven bursts.

His gaze swept her face with staggering clarity—love, longing, devotion, something dangerously close to joy—so open it left her breathless. He was looking at her as if he’d waited a lifetime for this.

“Well,” he murmured, wonder threading his voice. His thumb traced slow, reverent arcs along her jaw. “That confirms it.”

She stayed close—too close—eyes bright, lips swollen, heart racing with the quiet, disbelieving thrill of it.

“Confirms what?” she whispered, already leaning in again.

“That heat,” he said, smiling against her mouth, “was never neutral.”

My darling, @bloemrijk You weret he first to send in a request!! ❄️✨

I may have gotten a little carried away with this one, but your imagery prompt lit up my brain in the best possible way. Snowfall, northern wind, evergreen scent, a crackling hearth—and Leonardo standing quietly in the middle of all that restraint and warmth? I couldn’t not follow it where it wanted to go.

I leaned more into romance than anything else here—the kind that builds slowly, with shared warmth and careful choice—because it felt right for him, and for the hush of snowbound moments like this. Very “come watch the snow fall with me,” but said with hands, breath, and firelight instead of words.

Thank you so much for sending in this request, and for trusting me with Leonardo. I’m really glad we’ve connected, and I hope this feels like a cozy little winter gift just for you 🎄💙💜

Usual Ikemen Tag List: @ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady @nyxthepixystick

@ikeprinces-stuff @kaizoku-musume @candiedcoffeedrops @missaengg @ike-garden2024

@writingwhimsey @reborn-elven-spirit @william-rex @avellanas-nutty-empire @notjonahclemence