Cold Feet -

Emma turned to look at him. The porch light caught the side of his face, the stubble he hadn’t shaved in three days, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there on their wedding day.

Emma’s eyes stung. She looked down at her hands. The ring. The rainbows. Cold Feet

“I’m not letting you go,” he’d said. “Even if I have to freeze out here with you.” Emma turned to look at him

She remembered the night he’d proposed. December, snow falling thick and silent, the two of them ice skating on the frozen pond behind his parents’ farm. He’d pretended to fall, pulled her down with him, and when she’d laughed and pushed at his shoulder, he’d held up the ring—already on his pinky because his fingers were too cold to work the box. She looked down at her hands

She hadn’t meant to say I feel like a ghost in my own house . But she had. And Mark hadn’t denied it. He’d just looked at her with that new, tired expression—the one that said here we go again —and walked away.

“I’m not good at this,” Mark said quietly. “The talking. The… feeling stuff out loud. You know that.”