It must be three by now. There's no clock over the mantle and our cell phones are too far away, but even if we weren't hiding from the cold with our blankets and our heat, we wouldn't want to get up. She's having her last sniffles, wiping under her eyes. He's making her cry in front of me and he doesn't even know it, and it leaves me stuck wondering if my advice is something I, myself, should take - is love truly worth the depression that inevitably nips at its heels? In the silence, with the fireplace crackling and the flames wearing thin, she moves closer. She kisses my shoulder in the way that she does: light, soft, vulnerable. I'm wearing a camisole for reasons I can't explain beyond saying that maybe, for once, I'm the one seeking physical attention. But even around her, I am self-conscious. I reach down to adjust it over my stomach, fearing there will be skin showing, and she sighs. Her face is down, away from me. "Jenny?" she asks. I can barely hear her. We're lying on my living room floor and the creaks of the house are overpowering her voice. But I hear her enough, and I say, "Yes?" There's a pause as I swallow, waiting. "I'm so happy you don't hurt yourself anymore." I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing at all. Instead, I grasp a small part of her sleeve in my hand and hold it tightly. She puts her arms around me and runs a hand through my hair. Over and over and over again. And we just lay like that for another five minutes, breathing in and out, trying to shed our insecurities.