Icy nights at the waterfall – Our winter adventure

The temperatures are brutal: minus 12 degrees Celsius, and the wind whistles through the gorge like a knife. We're already standing at the foot of the frozen waterfall before sunrise – our favorite wall, almost 40 meters of pure, glistening ice. We check the ropes, the crampons, the ice screws. Everything's secure. As always.

"Ready to dance?" he grins and slaps me on the shoulder. I just nod because the cold is already biting my cheeks.

We take turns climbing ahead, rhythmically striking the ice axes, driving the crampons deep into the ice. The crunch of the ice, our breath in white clouds, the soft clinking of the carabiners – this is our winter ritual. Reaching the top, on the narrow plateau, we slap our hands, laughing heartily. The world below us is white and silent. We're just two idiots who love this.

We descend, then find a sheltered spot for our bivouac. Setting up a tent in this cold is torture, but we've done it a hundred times before. Shoulder to shoulder, efficiently, without a word.

Evening. The small campfire crackles among the rocks. We brought plenty of dry wood – and a large jug of mulled wine, which we keep warm over the flame. Along with it, steaming lentil soup from the stove. The first sip of mulled wine burns wonderfully in the throat, spreading like liquid fire in the stomach.

We sit close together on the sleeping mat, our backs against the tent. The stars are so close you feel you could reach out and touch them. He hands me the cup, our fingers touching longer than necessary. I look at him – his cheeks red from the cold and the wine, his eyes shining.

"Do you know what the best thing is?" he murmurs. "That we're doing this together. Always."

I lean my head against his shoulder. Just for a moment. He puts his arm around me, pulls me a little closer. Not another word. Just the fire, the mulled wine, our breath mingling together. We continue drinking slowly until the bottle is almost empty and the warmth settles deep inside us.

It's finally getting warm in the tent. We crawl into the large double sleeping bag – extra wide, extra thick, for just such nights. The lamp is off; only the faint glow of the fire outside penetrates the fabric.

We lie on our sides, face to face, our noses almost touching. The mulled wine has loosened us both up; the cold outside is forgotten. His hand finds mine under the blanket, our fingers intertwining. I can feel his pulse—fast, like mine.

"You smell of smoke and spice," he whispers, grinning crookedly.

I laugh softly, scooting closer until our foreheads touch. His breath brushes my lips. We kiss—hesitantly at first, then longer, deeper. Just kissing. Slowly. His tongue tastes of cinnamon and wine. My hand rests on his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath it.

We separate, look at each other. Neither of us says anything. Instead, we snuggle closer together, legs intertwined, warm, safe, close.

The kiss grows wilder. Hungrier. His hand slips under my thermal shirt, over my bare skin – hot despite the cold outside. I gasp as his fingers find my nipple and gently pinch it. I press myself against him, feeling his hard erection against my thigh.

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