Cold Feet -

The door creaked behind her.

Emma stared at the socks. Then at him. Then at the door to the house they’d bought together, the one with the leaky faucet and the crooked shelf and the bedroom where they’d stopped sleeping close.

They stood up together. Mark’s hand found hers—not the ring hand, the other one, the one that had been hanging empty at her side. Their fingers laced together, hesitant at first, then tighter.

“It’s cold out here,” he said.

She remembered. She’d meant it as a joke. But he’d taken off his own boots, pulled off his thick wool socks, and knelt in the snow to put them on her feet. His hands had been red and shaking. His smile had been the warmest thing she’d ever seen.

When he finished, he didn’t let go. He held her ankles, his head bowed, and she saw his shoulders shake once, twice.

Emma pulled her sweater tighter and sat on the top step. The engagement ring felt heavier than usual. She twisted it around her finger, a nervous habit she’d picked up in the last six months. The diamond caught the porch light and scattered tiny rainbows across her jeans. Cold Feet

Her throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“Put them on me,” she said.

The door was still open. The light was still on. And for the first time in a long time, Emma didn’t feel like a ghost. The door creaked behind her

Three years of marriage. Two of them good. One of them slowly freezing over.

A long pause. The neighbor’s cat wound between the porch railings, gave them both a disdainful look, and disappeared into the bushes.

She’d cried. He’d kissed her frozen nose. And they’d walked home wrapped in the same coat, clumsy and giddy and so sure that love was a thing that burned hot enough to melt any winter. Then at the door to the house they’d

“I don’t know when my feet got cold again,” Mark said. “But I think… I think maybe they’ve been cold for a while. And I just kept walking anyway.”