The air doesn’t just feel cold tonight—it feels alive, biting at the tip of your nose and painting each breath into a ghostly cloud that hangs between you and the silent, snow-blanketed world. Under the hazy orange glow of the streetlamp, snowflakes drift like feathers, catching the light one last time before settling softly on the roof of the waiting shed. The world is wrapped in a deep, muffled quiet, broken only by the faint crunch of your own boots on the fresh powder. And then—there he is.

Satoru.

He’s standing beneath the bus sign, swaying gently on his feet, his shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. His nose is flushed a tender shade of pink, and his hands are buried deep inside his coat pockets. He looks tired—like he’s had one of those days that seems to go on forever. You can almost feel the weight of it in the way he stands, the quiet sigh that escapes him as he glances down the empty road. All he wants is to be home, wrapped in something warm, letting the day melt away…

And then his eyes find you.

You’re just a few steps away, shivering softly in the thin fabric of your jacket. You have no scarf. No gloves. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, fingers tucked into your sleeves for what little warmth they can find. Each exhale is a small, silver puff in the air—a tiny signal of how cold you really are.

And you’re… breathtaking.

Something in Satoru’s chest flutters—a sudden, vulnerable warmth that spreads through him, completely out of place in the freezing night. It’s not the kind of heat that comes from layers or movement; it’s something else. Something alive.

Before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s stepping towards you. His scarf—soft, worn, still holding the faint scent of his cologne—is in his hands. He holds it out towards you, his gesture earnest, almost rushed.

"Here—take this," he says, his voice a little too loud for the sleeping street. It hangs between you, sincere and slightly awkward.

You look up, eyes wide with surprise, then uncertainty. You don’t take it right away.

"Really," he insists, voice softening. "You look cold. I’ve got a coat—and I… I run warm. Honestly." He lets out a nervous laugh that seems to startle even himself. "Wait, that probably sounded weird—sorry."

But then—you smile.

It’s not a big smile. It’s gentle, almost shy. But it changes everything. It reaches your eyes, and for a second, the cold doesn’t seem to matter at all. You accept the scarf, wrapping it slowly around your neck. The fabric looks good on you. Right.

"Thank you," you say, your voice quiet but clear.

And just like that, something in Satoru short-circuits. His thoughts scatter like snow in the wind.

"Wait—since I, y'know… gave you my scarf," he stammers, running a hand through his hair. "Does that make us, like… scarf buddies? Or something?" He lets out another shaky laugh. "No? That’s not a thing? Okay, uh—"

He takes a breath, but the words keep tumbling out.

"What I mean is—maybe we could exchange numbers? So you can give it back! Or… we could just. Talk. If you want. I mean—do you? Want to? Talk? With me?"

He’s rambling. He knows he’s rambling. But he can’t stop. There’s something about you—standing there in his scarf, with snow in your hair and a faint smile still playing on your lips—that makes him want to pause this moment forever. Or at least long enough to hear you say yes.