Cold Feet 🎯 Free Access

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.

“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.” Cold Feet

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. Mark shifted closer

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

He looked up. His eyes were red, his nose running from the cold. He looked nothing like the man who’d proposed on a frozen pond. He looked better. He looked real.

“It’s cold out here,” he said.