Outside is a mix of blue and grey and white. A winter storm had lain a shroud of ice over their little corner of the world. The wind is fierce and blasts everything, leaving a thick layer of frost behind. Trees on the property crack and crash under the weight of the ice, the branches unable to bear it.
Inside it's warm, despite the power being out. They had kindled a fire in the fireplace for light and warmth. Actually, it was becoming a little more than warm indoors. It was starting to get hot. Stifling hot. And sticky. Sweaty and wet.
A hand slaps against the glass of the window, fair and slender, ending in perfectly painted nails. They curl against the glass, squeaking on the smooth, cool surface.
Another hand, a larger hand, comes up to cover the first. This hand is not so pretty and delicate. This one is callused and tan, the nails long and sharp. The larger hand curls around the smaller one, pulling it away from the frost-covered glass.
Those hands stay together long after the sweat has cooled and the fire has dimmed. The power is still out but the storm rages on, covering the outside world in a layer of frost.