When Raylan responded by saying he liked it when Malcolm talked, tension broke across his face with an expression that looked like it could turn into a laugh or a sob and came out somewhere in between. Only when Raylan’s grasp loosened did he realize he had a death grip on the Marshal’s collar and he let go of it almost sheepishly as his other hand fell away. He smoothed it down carefully before stepping aside to pick up the box Raylan had dropped.

“We don’t want him to worry,” he agreed quietly. He didn’t stop or hand the box off to zip up his coat. The sweater would make up the difference. They were in motion. His blood was still on fire. He’d be warm enough.