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Your car doesn’t turn over, the engine grinding painfully, lurching to it’s final push, a pitiful death rattle that has you clenching your jaw, and pounding your already freezing hands against the stupid wheel.
You blink away the tears forming in your eyes, and stare out the windshield, your gaze falling with the steady stream of snow. You’d always loved the snow, the feeling of the flakes kissing your wind-bitten cheeks, the gradual flow of heat to your fingers and toes as you roast them over a wood-burning heater, the stunning brilliance of a freshly snowed in yard with the moonlight and stars reflecting everything off the blanketed ground.
Well, you loved everything about the snow, except for freezing to death, which seemed to be the order of the day. Your car had decided to die, and you were in the middle of nowhere, because of course you were, and you had no extra blankets–despite your mom’s constant warnings to keep a kit in your trunk. You were surely going to die, stiff and frozen, in your shitty little beater car, with the last dregs of your dignity piled up in the backseat taking the form of the intel.
You were going to die for a mission, yet you weren’t even going to get the dignity of going out in a blaze of glory.
Your numb fingers dug through your coat for your phone, and as you had suspected you barely had any signal, and even less battery.
Idiot. You absolute fucking idiot.
You flexed your fingers quickly and typed a short message to Adrian, and sent it. You copied it and sent it to the rest of the 11th Street Kids, but didn’t expect to get any responses.
They were the only people in the world you trusted with your life, and you doubted even they could save you from yourself this time. You watched your breath fog the windshield, and wondered why you had sent the first text to Adrian.
You had a list of reasons you could use: he was the most recent contact in your messages, his emoji made him easy to find, he wasn’t at work, if he was at home he was close, he was your best friend, and he always saved you.
They were all bullshit though. Each one was true enough, but it didn’t matter. You were in love with him. As much as you knew you couldn’t stop shivering, your teeth clacking painfully together, you knew you loved Adrian.
You’d never get to tell him now, though. The storm had picked up outside your little car, and you could feel the temperature dropping through the thin metal doors. You couldn’t feel your hands or feet anymore, and your vision was blurry from where your tears had frozen to your eyelashes. You’d be surprised if anyone found you until tomorrow, the dreary night punctuated by the lack of moonlight, the piling snow offering the barest illumination.
You check your phone, unclenching your fingers from the fist you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The black screen doesn’t awaken with your touch, and that’s when you realize how fucking cooked you actually are. You’d had the foresight to text out your exact GPS coordinates, but whether the messages actually delivered was anyone’s guess.
You shift in your seat, the movement painful, and huddle closer in on yourself. It doesn’t work, you aren’t any warmer than you were, but you feel accomplished all the same. You know you’re getting delirious, because you’re looking into the snow streaked night and you see headlights. The burst of warmth in your chest tells you you’re truly dying, but you relish the tendrils of heat tingling through your body. You could cry at the sensation in your fingers, the first you’ve felt in hours–or what has felt like hours–and maybe you are crying, you taste the salt on your lips.
You think about Adrian again, the mere thought of his green eyes helping warm you more. He has this twinkle in his eyes sometimes, you think, and you hope he doesn’t give a shit about you, because if you’re dying then he shouldn’t be sad. It’s better that he never knew that you loved him, you’re sure.
You want him to be beside you, so desperately, that you watch him get out of the car that pulled up and jog over to yours. You pull your lips up into a smile, at least you hope it’s a smile, and wait for his eyes to come into view. You’re taken aback at his face, crumpled in anguish, concern balling in the corners of his eyes, and distorting his lovely features.
A sharp rap on the glass broke your thoughts, and you’re confused. You know delusions are common with hypothermia, and you know that you’re feeling warm. Is this a trick your dying mind is playing on you? To traipse out into the cold and die faster?
You yank the door open, just in case, and are engulfed in snow immediately. Faster than you can process, gentle, but fim, hands are dragging you out of the car and crashing you into his chest. You bury yourself in the warmth, and hope this isn’t an elaborate prank your mind is pulling on you.
He’s moving quicker than you, your muscles still stiff, and he pulls you quickly to his car, which he left running, and points every vent at you and cranks the heat up as high as it’ll go. He starts driving, slowly, carefully, but with a heightened sense of urgency. You don’t notice how often he looks at you, what with your eyes shut as the full blast of heat burns your skin. You’re dimly aware that he’s talking, but you can’t make out the words. With the skin of your face growing uncomfortably warm, you slip into an uneasy sleep.
When you awake again, it’s because of the sunlight filtering in from between dark curtains. You’re stiff, your muscles and joints scream and ache when you stretch out, your skin feels too hot–stretched too thin across your skeleton.
But then someone’s helping you sit up, and shoving a warm mug in your hand. Even though a few seconds ago you felt blistered from head to toe, the heat from the ceramic mug splinters from your fingers and wraps around your body, the comfort is overwhelming and you sigh deeply before inhaling the rich liquid inside.
“You slept late, I was getting really worried.” Adrian admits, slipping onto the bed beside you, his thighs brushing yours, his arms folded awkwardly in his lap. You blink the sleep away from your eyes, and drink half the mug in one go.
He’s wrapped up in the ugliest sweater you’ve ever seen, and old sweats. You notice he stays on the outside of the comforter.
“I feel safe with you.” You mumble against the rim of the mug. You don’t miss his soft smile. You wiggle over more and pick the edge of the blanket up, as much as you can with him sitting on it. “You can get in, if you want.” You tell him, feeling ridiculous. It’s his house, of course he could get in the bed. He eyes you warily, before shifting to slide under the covers.
“Are you warm enough?” He asks, scooting closer to you under the blankets, pressing his side against yours.
“Yes, thanks for the warm clothes.” You express; the gratitude completely genuine. You’re also wrapped up in one of his ugle sweaters, but you find it more endearing from inside the fuzzy item. You’ve got thick sweats and socks on, and judging from how many blankets there are on the bed, Adrian used every one he had.
“I was–you were really cold.” He mumbles, an action unlike him.
“I thought I was going to die.” You admit, your throat tight from the weight of your words.
“Hashtag me too.” He tells you, miserably. You laugh at his misuse of the phrase, despite his crumpled face, and take another deep drink from the mug.
“What? What’s the joke?” He asks, squirming beside you, and wrapping an arm behind you, before dropping it again.
“I just…I think I love you.” You answer, sipping thoughtfully from your mug. You chance a look at him, and he’s frozen in place. You wait for him to thaw, like he did with you.
“Really? You’re not…you can’t be serious.” He finally manages to say, his eyes downcast behind his wire-framed glasses. He’s not hopeful at all, as though he’s already accepted being dejected, like he couldn’t believe that what you’re saying is true.
“As a heart attack.” You tell him, resolute. You snake your free hand out to his and grab it softly. He looks at you, his green eyes bright and shining, with one of his signature smiles. The simple act takes ten years off his face, though you notice the dark bruises under his eyes.
“I think I love you, too.” He says, finally regaining his composure and normal confidence. “Could I–well, you see, your lips are probably still cold. I could try to warm them up. If you want, that is.” You see through his rambling immediately and close the distance between your mouths.
When you press your lips to his, you realize yours were quite cold, but you know Adrian will have no trouble warming them up.