The bench groans and something heavy slips over my shoulders. I think I left my jacket inside, over the back of the beanbag. “It’s cold,” he mutters when I touch the edge of the sweatshirt draped over me in silent question. He glances once at my bare legs in the glittering moonlight and then out at the view. His jaw tightens, then releases. “I didn’t want you to be cold.”
