Dylan tensed, unsure of what to do. She was actually touching him; it was almost as if she could tolerate him! His cheeks tinted pink and his heart sped up a little. Her hand was warm and soft; his own cold, too-long fingers curled around it. Although Dylan ate like a horse, he remained under his ideal weight. The cold penetrated his slender form with ease. Per, however, was like a heatblanket. Yes, a heatblanket, Dylan theorized; because blankets were soft and sometimes pretty. 

When she spoke, he turned to look down at her sheepishly with dark eyes. His stupid, curly hair was all in his face, as usual, and he resembled a scrawny sheepdog. 
"Yeah," He said dumbly.