Page 90 of It's Always Sonny

His fingers wiggle against my back, and I feel the sleeping bag shift as he wiggles his toes.

“Yeah.” He yawns. “I can feel them. No frostbite. Although maybe you should touch the rest of me and I’ll tell you if there are any dead spots.”

I pinch him, and he flinches. “Ow!”

“Not a dead spot,” I say. “Oh, and they found Harry. He’s safe and fine. I’ll tell you about his hot tub escapades tomorrow.”

“There’s a hot tub?”

“That’s what you got from the story?”

“I have the hottest girl alive pressed up against me in a sleeping bag built for one, I’m cold, and my brains aren’t working right yet. Forgive me if the idea of getting you into a hot tub warms me up a bit extra. You should be happy about that.”

I laugh and duck my face into his armpit. Where he has armpit hair. “Ew! Hair!”

“You know, I could say the same thing. Your hair is everywhere.”

I shift so I can put my head on his shoulder. My breath puffs against his neck before bouncing back at me. “And that’s why I always wear it up. It’s driving you crazy, isn’t it?”

“My nose is itching.”

“Told you. I bet you’re regretting all those years of you pestering me to leave it down.”

“Years? I asked two, maybe three times. And it was curiosity. If I’d had frosted tips in high school, are you saying you wouldn’t have wanted to see that?”

“I would never want to see frosted tips on anyone.”

He shakes with laughter.

“Did you have frosted tips, Sonny?”

“You’ll never know.”

“Shoot, now I’m dying to see you with frosted tips.”

“SEE?”

He reaches up to scratch his nose, but frigid air rushes in, and Sonny shudders. He shoves his arm back into the sleeping bag, and I try to tighten it around him. He’s not cold to the touch anymore, but my dad said it could take a couple of hours for him to return to temperature. The tent is noticeably more comfortable than being out in the blizzard, but it’s still subarctic in here. This polar vortex is no joke.

I don’t feel the same surge of fear at his shudder now that he’s talking, but I’d be lying if I said worry didn’t hang over my head like my own personal storm cloud.

I sigh and hold him close.

“I don’t think you squeezing me is warming me up the way you think it is.”

“Sorry.”

“But if you wanted to make out—”

I squeeze him tight enough to make his breath expel.

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, and it’s just us and the dim lantern and the screaming gales outside of the tent.

Then his lips press against the top of my head. “You know, you make a surprisingly good space heater.”

“Ha! My greatest accomplishment.”

“It’s certainly one of them,” he says. “You are a source of immense hotness, and I’m soaking it all in.”

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