Drakeofffc

The winter was colder than ever. The wind cut through my cheeks, the snow crunched under my boots, and the windows in my apartment were covered in a thin pattern of frost.

You sat on the windowsill, wrapped in his hoodie, a mug of hot tea in your hands. The apartment was warm, but you still wanted to snuggle into something of his. He was fiddling around in the hallway—it seemed he was fixing the crooked lock again.

You quietly turned on some music – an old ballad playing softly in the background, almost inaudible. From the hallway, you heard:

"What, are you sad again while listening to your own songs?"

"I'm not sad. I'm... thinking."

He appeared in the doorway—in a t-shirt, tools in hand, and a slightly furrowed smile. He approached, looked out the window—at the gray February, at the city where everything seemed equally frozen.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly.

You looked at him—that look, slightly wary, as if he was ready for a joke, but not for the truth.

"What's strange is: I used to think I didn't need anyone. But now... I can't imagine a single day without you."

He didn't answer immediately. He just stood beside her. Then he sat down beside her, leaning his shoulder against the windowsill. He was silent.

"When I first saw you," he began, looking down at the floor, "I thought, 'Don't get involved. It's not your story.' But then I got involved anyway. Because it was already over—it was all gone."

You felt your heart beat faster. He turned to you, his gaze serious, as if he were about to say something truly important.

— I'm not good at all this. Words, gestures. I… sometimes I'm afraid I'll only mess things up. But I know for sure — you're my person. Got it?

warmer than February