A plaid scarf
wrapped tightly, suffocating me,
protecting me from the biting wind.
A silver snow whisping its way
down the road, in the trees.
I was awaiting someone.

"Jack Frost, you ought not be here."

"No need to worry, Midd Summer. My turf is yours."

"The fae will not be pleased."

A scoff that chilled,
that sent shivers down my spine
was pressed against the nape of my neck.

"That's fine, as long as you are."