“I stopped asking you to put on your socks,” she whispered. “I just assumed you didn’t care if I was cold anymore.”
Now, the cold was different. It wasn’t outside. It was between them. A creeping frost that started with small things—a forgotten anniversary, a dismissed opinion, a hand reaching across the bed for a hand that wasn’t there. They’d stopped talking about anything real. Stopped laughing at inside jokes. Stopped saying I love you like it meant something other than goodnight . Cold Feet
“Put them on me. Like you did before.” “I stopped asking you to put on your