Peak

Night. The wind howls outside. Y/N isn't sleeping. She's sitting on the floor by the radiator, wrapped in a blanket. Paper and scissors are on her lap. She's cutting snowflakes, but her hands are shaking, and the pattern is tearing. She's crying. Silently.

Pik comes out of the bedroom to get some water. He stops in the doorway. He looks at her for a second, then another, then a third.

Peak: His voice suddenly sounds muffled Stop it.

Y/N: without turning around I'm not disturbing your sleep. Go.

He doesn't leave. He does something he never does—he sits down on the floor next to her. Too upright, too awkward. Like a robot forced to imitate a human.

Peak: That's not what I meant. Stop crying. It's... irrational. But it's causing me to become uneasy.

He takes her hands in his. His fingers are icy, even at home. But he squeezes them so hard that it hurts.

Y/N: You're hurting me.

Peak: I don't know any other way. I don't feel warmth, Y/N. At all. I can watch you freeze and think, "It's physics." But for some reason... He falls silent, searching for a word that isn't in his vocabulary ...for some reason, when you cry, the windows fog up. And that's impossible. There's a downside.