Cold Feet -

She remembered. She’d meant it as a joke. But he’d taken off his own boots, pulled off his thick wool socks, and knelt in the snow to put them on her feet. His hands had been red and shaking. His smile had been the warmest thing she’d ever seen.

The argument ended the way all their arguments ended now: with the soft click of a door and the louder silence that followed. Emma stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching her breath fog in the October chill. Inside, the warm light of the kitchen framed Mark’s silhouette as he scraped cold lasagna into the trash.

“You told me,” Mark said, “that your feet were cold because you’d forgotten your wool socks. But the rest of you was warm. And that was enough.”

“I stopped asking you to put on your socks,” she whispered. “I just assumed you didn’t care if I was cold anymore.” Cold Feet

“I’m not good at this,” Mark said quietly. “The talking. The… feeling stuff out loud. You know that.”

“Then come inside,” she said. “And put the kettle on.”

“You were shivering so bad your teeth were chattering. And I asked if you were cold, and you said—” He stopped, swallowed. “You said, ‘Only my feet.’” She remembered

Her camera roll from that first year was a riot of color: blurry brunch photos, Mark making a stupid face in a hardware store, the two of them tangled on the couch with a foster kitten asleep on Mark’s chest. She scrolled to last month. Three photos. A grocery list. A screenshot of a weather alert. A blurry picture of the ceiling she must have taken by accident.

Emma pulled out her phone. Not to call anyone. Just to look.

Emma nodded. She did know. She’d married him anyway, because his quiet had once felt like safety. Now it felt like a locked door. His hands had been red and shaking

She didn’t turn around. She heard Mark sit down a careful two feet away. He was wearing his old college hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs. She’d bought him a new one last Christmas. He’d never worn it.

Mark shifted closer. Not all the way—just enough that their shoulders almost touched. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out something small and worn. A pair of wool socks. His old ones, the ones from the pond, patched at the heel and faded from a dozen washes.

Her throat tightened. “Yeah.”