"And you're warmer than you have any right to be, in these conditions." But Locke always seemed so warm to her. He was the fire to her ice. She wrapped her arms around his sides, warming her hands against his skin. It was probably more comfortable for her than him, considering that her hands must feel like ice cubes, but she knew he wouldn't mind, he never did.

His earlier words came to mind, and her earlier frustration, both with the fire and his wound, "Do you ever miss it? Magic?"