He can see the way you keep fidgeting as you walk home from school beside him, pulling your hands from your pockets to blow hot air on them, rubbing them together before shoving them back into your pockets. It’s deep December now in Russia, and everything is coated with a thick layer of frost and snow. He’s alright, he’s got his thick leather gloves on—but you didn’t have the foresight to bring your gloves today.

He wants to scoff at you, call you an idiot, tell you it’s your own fault for not bringing gloves—but he can’t do that. You’re his girlfriend now, so he has to make an effort, right? He’s never really had a girlfriend before. He doesn’t know what to do with you. He hasn’t even kissed you yet. He despises PDA—he’s the type to scoff when he sees a happy couple in public—so he can’t believe he’s even considering doing this. The thought is absurd.

He glances to either side of him, to make sure no one he knows is around, before he sighs and roughly grabs your hand in his, intertwining his fingers with yours. He’d like to tell himself that the red tint to his cheeks is due to the cold weather, but he knows damn well it isn’t. He keeps his head turned away from you, frowning and pouting to himself, but he can see your happy little smile in his peripheral vision. This isn’t so bad, he supposes.