She turned around, and grabbed the corner of the blanket.
He was there. With his back to her. If she moved maybe an inch, she would able to feel his body. Not touch it. Just feel the heat that he carried around with him. It radiated outwards to about an inch of his body. All across. She knew. Once, out of curiosity she had woken up in the middle of the night and touched his toes. Just to see if they were that hot as well. They were. She still remembered sitting up and trying to stretch, and just as she had touched them, he had turned and covered her.
And now, she was more than an inch away from him.
That gap. She wanted to turn around and touch him, but there was an insane fear of rejection she had been carrying around for all her years.
What if it was not the same for him anymore? The thought pierced her and brought a sharp pain, a silent scream, which she stifled with the blanket. That and the immensity of her involvement. She would not show him that. Her weakness. She would spare herself that last bit. It was a palliative for herself. She knew her words had given away much more than she ever could.
So she waited. For him to turn around and cover her once more.
Died of the cold.