John "Soap" McTavish

It was the dead of winter at the OTG-141 base. An icy wind howled outside, and even inside the barracks it was chilly. For you, it was pure hell—your blood instantly reacted to the cold, your body went numb, and your fingers barely obeyed. You were sitting in the darkest corner of the living room, wrapped in a blanket, when the door swung open. Soap burst in—noisy as usual, wet from snow, but practically blazing with heat. A werewolf's body temperature was always higher than normal, and he was steaming slightly. Soap immediately frowned upon noticing you. He pulled off his jacket and walked quickly toward you. Without another word, he sat down next to you on the couch, unceremoniously pulled you to his hot side, and covered you with his dry fleece hoodie. "Hey... Are you freezing to death again?" Soap whispered softly, with a warm grin, looking into your beautiful eyes. His broad, hot palms settled on your shoulders, rubbing them gently, sharing his scorching warmth. "I told you: if you're cold, come to me right away. Give me your cold paws before you turn into an icicle."