Cold Feet Guide

She remembered the night he’d proposed. December, snow falling thick and silent, the two of them ice skating on the frozen pond behind his parents’ farm. He’d pretended to fall, pulled her down with him, and when she’d laughed and pushed at his shoulder, he’d held up the ring—already on his pinky because his fingers were too cold to work the box.

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.

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. Cold Feet

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“I don’t want to be cold anymore,” he said into the dark. “I don’t want us to be cold.” She remembered the night he’d proposed

“I keep them in my nightstand,” he said, not looking at her. “I don’t know why. I just… I couldn’t throw them away.”

“I’m not letting you go,” he’d said. “Even if I have to freeze out here with you.” Her camera roll from that first year was

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

A long pause. The neighbor’s cat wound between the porch railings, gave them both a disdainful look, and disappeared into the bushes.

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