[doesn't matter how often he sees sara. the sight of her, whether it's slinking upstairs to his loft above the bar to sprawl out on his bed (but damn if it doesn't smart a little that she takes his side and his covers) or now where he's honestly contemplating if it's healthy to be jealous of a bit of buttercream (fun fact: it's not), is always a GOOD THING™.

as to be expected, his eyes bug out at the icy breath. despite the chill that comes with the inhales and exhales of her breath, mick can't really describe it as anything other than hot.

he finishes the rest of his pile of wings, licking the remnants of the sticky sauce from his fingers complete with audible pop.

is it warmer or something? he breathes in and out through his nose, puffs of smoke filling the air between them as he does.]

If you talk to our favorite cold loving friend, he'd tell you it says something about the duality of man or some pretentious shit that rich people say.

Fire and ice probably go together like ebony and ivory. I like the contrast.