That hand too is tucked up close against her. It's a different breed of crossed arms--low across her middle, mitten hands tight against her sides. Between them are her knees, and the scuff of her boots, and him balanced on his heels and the smudge of blood on knuckles. At least one of the chickens is clever enough to peel away from the little flock and coming questing back toward the pan, peck-peck-pecking experimentally at its edge.

"Sometimes I think you're ashamed of our friendship. Mine. And Mister Stark's."

I am devoted to you, he had said so long ago. It had seemed so painful to him then.