She thought it was too cold for rain. It's cold in the truck, wrapped up as she is in two of his flannels, watching the winter rain slough across her window.
It's cold and it's quiet and she misses his warmth. The weight of his palm against her stomach while they sleep, the overwhelming presence of his body standing shadow behind hers when he collects his winnings.
She glances at him quickly: Logan as always and the stature of him - powerful fingers around the wheel, hard cut of hazel eyes out at the road, scent like old tobacco and sweat - has the corner of her mouth lifting up.
She wants to slide across the bench and under his arm and into his side. She wants to smell him from the source. Wants to get sleepy-eyed and mellow and doze until they've reached the next town.
"Marie, c'mre girl."
She feels herself getting warmer and warmer the farther away she gets from that window, from all that winter rain. She slides into his heat and sighs warm against his neck.
Later, when the rain turns to sleet and then snow, he'll park behind some church or another. He'll let her keep all the blankets on the trailer's bed and ignore the sweat that pools behind her knees while he rocks into her.
For now, he'll do just fine keeping her warm.