A/N: The way I work through my emotions, is through writing. This will just be a collection of canon/semi-canon drabbles.
It's wintertime, cold, the kind that bites at your fingertips and burrows its way deep beneath your skin. Pulling at her hat, trying to cover her ears, Rachel laughs as the snow sticks and clings to her coat, laughs as she sticks and clings to Finn. They're walking to school today, because Finn's truck broke down last night and the idea of riding the school bus is less than appealing.
It's not so bad, though. It's cold, and the weather slightly less than ideal, but she's with Finn. And Rachel's found, over the past year or so, that everything is infinitely better when she's with him.
He's wearing his letterman jacket, and Rachel pulls at it, pulls him closer to her. "You're going to freeze, Finn Hudson," she tells him, trying to sound admonishing. Because no matter how ridiculously cute he looks in that thing, it doesn't change the fact that it's certainly not made for this time of the year.
He's probably not even wearing an undershirt or any layers, and now, in the back of her mind that's reserved for the absolute most paranoid of her thoughts, she's wondering just how concerned she should be about hypothermia.
Finn blushes, tells her that he left his good winter coat at his grandma's last weekend. "I didn't think you'd notice," he says, and he's sort of mumbling now, like he always does when he's trying to get her to drop the subject.
She sighs, and he says, "I'm not even cold, Rach. I promise."
Rachel raises an eyebrow at him, and he rolls his eyes a little. "Not even super cold," he amends, which she appreciates, because lying, even about the smallest, tiniest thing, has never boded well for their relationship.
He looks down at her, smiles, pulls at the pom that rests on the top of her hat. "You look like you're made for the snow, though," he tells her, resting his hand on top of her head for a moment, before intertwining their fingers again.
He's wearing the gloves she made him for Christmas, the soft wool ones that are bright green and blue. It's funny – because Finn has, honestly, the largest hands out of anyone she knows. And gloves never fit him; he always used to complain about how unfair it was that everyone else got to wear gloves and mittens, but his ginormous hands never managed to fit into them quite right.
(His words – not hers, of course, because Finn's hands aren't ginormous. They're perfect; just, perhaps, a little larger than most.)
Anyway, she spent forever making those gloves, waking up early before her morning runs to make sure that she'd get them done in time. And now, whenever she sees him wearing them – is it corny, to say that it always makes her love him just a little bit more?
She smiles up at him, brushes her thumb over his, as the big, fluffy flakes drop onto her cheeks. He leans down, kisses them off, softly, before dropping his mouth down to meet hers.
"Your breath smells like blueberries," she says, and when he pulls away and smiles at her, he tells her that he ate the blueberry bread she baked him yesterday for breakfast.
It's cold out. And it's so terribly cliché to say, but her heart feels very, very warm.