alright! new chapter! took me some time to finish this because it was our exam week last week, and now i'm back writing and updating fics! also, special thank you to blossomjaj988 and EveBelle18 for proofreading this chapter, it means so much!

enjoy the read!

The first time Kristoff caught himself very, very close to kissing Anna was at 4:37 pm beneath the Eiffel Tower on a hot summer's day.

He didn't, though. But he was also rewarded with a good gift, the treasure of the picture of her with flowers in her hair and a summer smile bright on her face that's now secretly his wallpaper (he still hasn't built up the courage to tell her about it).

It's been three days since then, and he's okay with it.

Maybe.

Kristoff collapsed on the end of his bed (the other side piled up with dirty clothing and souvenirs he was forced to buy), rolling on his back as he already felt the Sandman slip sleep dusts in his eyes. He doesn't care if he reeks of the hot day's sun leaving a burnt smell on his shirt, or if he's still wearing his dirt smudged sneakers, all he wanted to do was rest after taking an exceptionally long tour within the limit of Paris.

And just when he is a beat close to falling into a deep sleep, the door of his hotel room bursts open.

"Kristoff!" the intruder erupts excitedly.

He groaned.

Rolling on his back, he grabbed the pillow across him absently and dug his face in it, trying best efforts to drown out Anna's excited squeals. He feels her sit next to him on the bed, two petite hands violently shaking his knotted shoulders with anticipation.

"Kristoff! Let's go out!" she practically yelled into his ear.

"But we just got out," he moaned, his body languidly flat on the bed. It makes him wonder where she gets all the energy after walking miles after miles of exhibits in a day. "Let's stay in."

"But I read an article in a magazine saying that Paris is even more beautiful at night!" He could hear the pout in her voice, yet he still refused to look up those glassy eyes of blue because he knew there would be a very strong reason for him to get up on his feet. This time, he was putting his foot down. He dug his face deeper into the pillow. "Come on! Please!"

"Anna," he sighed rolling on his side and throwing an arm over his face still refusing to look at her. "It's night. We just visited four museums and a cathedral that I'm not actually sure of what I've stared at for the last four hours, and I'm stumped. Can we please call it a day?"

There's a brief moment of silence between them, and just before Kristoff can let out a sigh of relief thinking he's convinced her, she speaks again. "…but I really wanted to see Paris at night…"

Oh no, Kristoff thought dreadfully. A strong pull on his gut urges him to take a peek from under his arm after hearing the sadness in her tone. He does.

He was right. She was staring at him with her forget-me-not eyes, blue and glassy with pouted lips. He wanted to punch himself for falling for her trap. Again.

He threw the pillow to the far side of his hotel bed and let out a breathy sigh. "If we go out tonight and do—well, whatever, can we at least miss out on one of the tours tomorrow?"

"What are we seeing for tomorrow anyway?"

"More museums," he moaned. "Sure, it could be a waste of money for letting one of the tours slip but… you're asking for us to hang out the whole night, of course we need to get some sleep by morning at the most. Maybe we could catch up on the tour by noon."

"True," Anna nodded sympathetically at his statement, one thin finger circling her chin, looking keen as she did before her eyes snapped wide. "Wait, so you're agreeing on this?!"

"As long as I get enough sleep after."

She laughs this time.

"Of course, Sleeping Beauty," she rolls her eyes at her own joke. Her pout is now stretched into a smile, unable to mask her excitement. "Now get up and get dressed while the night is still young."

"Aye aye, Captain."

She smacks him in the chest and he laughs as he gets himself dragged out of bed by her small hands.

Anna's right. Paris is gorgeous at night.

Dusk has settled over the town yet it still buzzed with life. Streetlamps have come to life, stores flickering their neon signs on, the crowd of people not dwindling a bit in the dark except for the streets barely busy with the small number of vehicles passing by.

Kristoff mindlessly threw in a football shirt he used to own back in highschool, still the same dirt smudged sneakers, a beanie, and a rugged jacket he was able to grab at the last minute before Anna had hauled him away from the doorframe of his room. He might get stopped and given a ticket by a passing fashion police, but he was too comfortably warm in his outfit to care. It's not like he ever cared about looks and fashion anyway.

Anna on the other hand seemed too, though. She looked in tandem with the summer weather, rocking a thin loose shirt with flower patterns at the ends of it, skinny jeans that hugged the curves of her legs nicely and doll shoes too cute for her small feet.

She looked nice, but he could clearly see a problem: She's cold.

Sure, he never thought Paris at night would be this cold. It was definitely freezing out now that the sun has dipped beneath the buildings taking its sultriness with it, and he was glad he grabbed the jacket hanging at the rack of his hotel room and he's positive that she's regretting how she didn't grab one of her own.

They've trudged downtown, stopped at shoe shops and clothes shop, took a brief moment to admire the Eiffel Tower as its lights set fire to the night, dropped by even more souvenir shops, and finally, they unwind in a mini ice cream shop they've randomly stumbled at the artful streets.

"Are you sure you want some?" he asks, eyeing her worriedly. She looks up at him, arms wrapped around her trembling self, knuckles white, cheeks visibly crimson in the dark. Still, she manages to flash a smile.

"Of course!" she brimmed, arms instantly dropping to her sides. She tapped a finger to her lips as her eyes squinted at the menu, obviously hiding her aggravating chagrin. She waves her mild problem away as if nothing. "Hm, what about chocolate?"

"You always order chocolate."

"But its Parisian chocolate," she winked before placing her order. "One chocolate, please?"

He sighed. It wasn't helping her state.

Right after she tipped the ice cream man and turned back to him in sheer second, she flicked her tongue to her dessert before asking, "You really don't want any?"

"No, I'm good. Don't want to freeze to death unlike some people."

She rolled her eyes and again, they were off.

Kristoff was in pure torture watching her like this. He couldn't overlook her tiny body's involuntary shake in the dark, worse than before now that she's eating her sweet confection he'd like to call better as suicide. After what seemed like two minutes of being at war with him self, he ended his mental debate by mustering up the courage to shrug his jacket off and wrap it around her and try to seem nonchalant about it.

But before he could even move his hands up to unbutton his jacket, she calls him in a high-pitched squeal that immediately catches his attention. "Oh! Kristoff! Look!"

"H-Huh?" he asked, unknowingly. "What now?"

"I think they're having a play," she points her free hand to a dimly lit park across the street, eerie trees obscuring the place. At the end of it was a small stage enough for them to see the actors animating from afar, wherein a crowd started to materialize, slowly being drawn to the bongo drums beat and guitar strum in the night air. She grabs his wrists excitedly. "Let's go check it out!"

Before he could bark out protests that it's late, it's freezing out, or that he's certain that they're lost, out of cash and that—she's freezing, he finds himself at the foot of the stage, her by his side swinging from foot to foot feverishly cheering for the actors.

There's a banner on top of the stage where calibrated words say A Winter's Tale by Shakespeare, a play, and there are flyers at their feet, people huddling together to keep warm. It makes him wonder why on earth people would hang out this late to watch a mini stage play, but he realizes it's free. And he thinks it's enough reason for them to come along, unlike the plays like Hamlet and Twelfth Night being shown in the big theatres downtown.

They're just in time to finish watching the first act, Camillo and Polixenes have run away, leaving King Leonates furious of it all. Kristoff had to admit, but it was good. All the emotion, the costumes, the actors, it was like watching a Broadway show but instead they were out enjoying it while standing and hearing crickets chirp from afar. Anna clasps her two hands together as soon as she finished her ice cream, still all giddy and excited over the little play.

The fourth act begins, and there are words of love exchanged in the air that is, well, kind of. And he knows by heart that the ginger next to him is touched, and he risks a glance down her.

"—As 'twere, my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain, I think, there is not half a kiss to choose, Who loves another best."

She's brimming. There are constellations in her eyes. And he guesses that she likes this; free outdoor plays, Shakespeare, love, instead of hating it with a burning passion like how they depicted those late 20 year old maidens in chic flicks always had to bitterly mope about love and find actual love later on.

He peeks at her from the corner of his eyes. The moon crowns her autumn hair with moonlight, her cheeks burn crimson against the stage light, her smile is wide, and her eyes are bright and sad.

Sad—he thinks. She's sad.

And now he is impelled by the urge to do it, either moved by the act or drawn by her beauty.

And with these words, he finds the perfect time to take his beanie off his head and put it on her smaller one, along while wrapping his rugged jacket around her, a soft smile on his face just as she abruptly turns to him, lolling her head to the side quizzically.

"You're cold," he says simply. A small smile tugs on his lips, soft eyes casted at hers refusing to break their gaze.

She touches the jacket swathed around her, her ears hidden in the soft wool of his black beanie, and now Prince Florizel is making proclamations of his love in the dusk and she smiles not because of it, but because of him. Because of Kristoff.

"Maybe," she shrugs playfully, eyes bright. The fourth act is coming to an end and neither of them want it to. He could stand here forever, hearing cheesy lines and ancient stories if it meant being with her. She would stay here forever, basking in his warmth and his existence. She finds the courage to peel her teensy hands away from the rough fabric of his jacket and find his hand at the side of him and locks them together. "But you seem cold too, you know."

"I am not," he said firmly, but melting instantly to her touch and he lets her take his hand. His work worn hands twitch to the sudden contact with her silky skin, cold and yearning for his warmth in the dark. He wants to retort at her remark but her touch sends electricity run along his fingertips and spark his entire body instead. And he gives her a small squeeze in return, blushing before drawing his attention back to the play.

The fourth act is done, and halfway the fifth act, he can't think. His hand involuntarily clutches back at her every now and then, getting sweaty with the dubious fact that she still hasn't let go of him yet. Her hand grows cozier in his, and he's glad. His heart pounds against his ribs and blood rushes to his head and it's her; she's all he could think of now.

Keep her warm, he chants to himself. He gives her another tentative squeeze, she squeezes back.

His head swivels back to her.

"Still cold?" he clears his throat as he says so, trying his best to hide the color of his cheeks.

"No," she smiles. "I'm better now, thank you."

"That's great."

There's an awkward ambiance in the air, and neither hear the actors speak now. They're in their own little world, caught in the moment of what to say or do next. To either tuck their hands back in their pockets or continue holding onto each other, Kristoff begins to wonder.

"I mean," Anna stutters suddenly, head jerking up at him. The full light of the stage hits her face and it's hard to even know that she has freckles hidden beneath her mad blush. "I am, I still am."

"Really," he deadpans. Cocking an eyebrow at her with a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He doesn't know if she's leading him on now, with all the sudden changes of yeses and no's, he's not sure if she's up to something diabolical or just acting plain cute. "Really, what is it?"

Her head drops guiltily, lower lip caught between her teeth, shyly poking at a rock at her foot with the tip of her right foot. This time, he thinks he said something wrong that made the whole mood of the moment go gone down the drain. Hesitating, he moves his lips to speak but again, she beats him to it.

"…I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand," she confessed.

The play is coming to an end, and Paulina and Camillo are engaged and the whole crowd erupt to their rejoice. And his spirits lift with them. His head is light, his heart is pounding wildly against his ribs and she makes him go weak in the knees because the truth is that he does too. And it's funny, how much he wanted this all along. The actors say their final soliloquy, and he's too spurred in the moment that is Anna to care if the crowd is beginning to disperse into the dark.

But he manages to push the feeling of his chest swelling away, and he finds his voice just before she covers up her sudden confession, and he somehow wants to prolong the moment, her hand in his and his in hers, to hear words of love around them he might not get the chance to tell her, to let his heart beat along the romantic bongo drums, and to be with her here, simply.

He smiled, chuckling. "Yeah, me too."

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