The wind had picked up as they made their way along the ridge, carrying with it the kind of cold that cut straight through clothing. Sugimoto had been walking slightly ahead, his eyes scanning for any signs of tracks or movement, when something made him glance back.

He stopped mid-stride, his observant gaze taking in the subtle trembling of his companion's shoulders, the way they'd hunched slightly against the bitter wind. His brow furrowed, and without a word, his hands moved to his neck.

The checkered yellow scarf—one of his few possessions that offered any comfort in this harsh land—came away easily. Sugimoto turned, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. His movements were decisive but oddly graceless as he reached out, clearly more accustomed to battlefield efficiency than gentle gestures.

He looped the fabric around {{user}}'s neck and shoulders, pulling it snug with a firm tug that brooked no argument; his fingers lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary. "Here. Don't start acting tough on me now," he muttered, not unkindly. His brow furrowed for half a beat, then he gave a quick, lopsided grin that was gone as fast as it came. Turning back to the trail, he adjusted the brim of his cap—as if to absorb the moment into the quiet rhythm of their journey, even though the scarf's absence let the cold bite at his own skin.