She catches him sometimes.
It’s winter, and when she pulls her jacket tighter around her, she can’t help but notice the far off look in his eyes. The way they reflect the anguish they held not so long ago. When she tugs her sleeves past her icy fingers, he grabs her hands and brings them to his lips; blowing hot air and pressing warm kisses on her skin. At night, when the wind blows through the loft and makes her shudder under the thin covers, he’ll rise - despite her protests - and find her more blankets for warmth.
(Not that she really minds, but it makes her heart ache to think of why he does it.)
When he kisses the roses under her cheeks, and the pink of her nose uncovered by a warm scarf, she sees how happy he is for the colours. For anything that isn’t the blue that painted her flesh on that fateful day with Elsa and the ice cave.
(He’d long since forgiven the woman for almost taking his love away, but the look on his face when Emma trembles with cold tells her that he has not forgotten.)