Miss. He felt a little smug at the thought of it, though he couldn't put a finger on why. Even when she'd tried to be patient with him, she'd never been able to stop herself from snapping at him or saying something that made him felt small. No self-respecting man wanted to put up with that, either, so surely that was where the sense of self-satisfaction came from—that he'd been right about her. His eighteen-year-old self might have struggled to hide the accompanying smug smile that came with such smug thoughts, but instead he managed one that looked genuine and pleasant as he nodded in polite greeting.

"I'd be doing much better if it were the middle of summer and could feel the sun on my skin," he said smoothly and with a hint of playfulness, though there was an undisputable truth in his words. Every year he cycled through the same thing, wanting it to be colder in the heat of the summer when his skin burned red after being outside all day, and then wanting it to be warmer in the winter when the wind chill left him just as red as he was in the summertime. "Although it would be mean-spirited of me to complain with Christmas so close, don't you think?" He wasn't sure why he'd fallen into such a conversational tone with her, but it came more naturally than resuming the mildly antagonistic dynamic that they'd left off on, what, seven years prior?

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