49. Cold hands
She comes in from her evening run to find him sitting at her kitchen table. As always, he resembles something nearly immaculate: his shirt is pressed, his gloves spotless. His overcoat is draped carefully over one of her hard-backed chairs. Riza realises how absurd she must look in comparison—it is raining out of doors and she has just run six miles. Therefore she is soaked and flushed with both exertion and with cold. Still, when he stands wordlessly to greet her, his arms outstretched, she goes to him, winding her body about his, the water skimming off of her clothes to soak his. (As he embraces her, his shirt becomes translucent with moisture, a magic trick.) She burrows herself into his warmth like an animal, her head against his chest and her fingers curling beneath his shirt, against his stomach. He shudders a little at her touch—her fingers are very cold—before covering her hands with one of his own, pressing her closer and the reason as to why he is here can wait a little longer. She shivers into him and cannot get warm.