"Shedding"
And if cold mornings were wonderful, cold evenings were doubly so. Before they left, she'd ask him to wait a moment as she got ready, so he'd lean against the wall and wait. And she'd be so focused on pulling on her myriad scarves, hats, coats, trying to shove her double-clad arm into yet another narrow sleeve, that she wouldn't even notice as he watched her and her elaborate ritual for the full ten minutes it took.
Since he enjoyed the chill – found it bracing, really – she'd insist that they walk home even as she struggled to pull her hat more snug. If it was hard to argue with her normally, it was doubly difficult when they were arguing over a favor for him, so he would just smile and hold the door for her, walk a step closer as they passed the cold hood of the car, perhaps gilded with a bit of snow, some ice. And at her inevitable shiver even before they were halfway through, he'd slide his arm about her shoulders and pull her inside his overcoat. She'd sigh and lean her head against his neck. It was, somehow, safer. Perhaps scarves and hats and coats gave anonymity in bulk.
And when they got home, she'd stand in the foyer, scowling and struggling with the intricacies of her clothing. Again, he'd pull her against him, and he'd tenderly unwind the scarf from about her neck, then tend to her buttoned coat (his hands more dexterous in their familiarity with gloves). She'd shrug it off and give it to him even as he slipped mittens from her hands. She'd leave him, then, clothing falling in her wake. Inevitably, by the time he had pulled off his boots, the kettle was keening. It was lovely, in those moments, to anticipate how his coffee, her tea, was always doubly wonderful in the chill.