The blizzard struck fast, swallowing the mountain trail in a curtain of white. You and Noritoshi barely made it to the old shrine—dusty, half-collapsed, but shelter nonetheless. The storm roared against the wooden walls, and the single fire you managed to light flickered weakly in the cold air.

Noritoshi sat beside you, posture straight, face calm despite the freezing wind seeping through every crack. Hours passed, the fire shrinking, the temperature dropping. When he noticed you shivering, he hesitated only a moment before shifting closer.

His shoulder brushed yours. Then, reluctantly, he wrapped part of his cloak around you, letting you lean against him.

The storm howled. Inside, silence softened.

After a long stretch of quiet, his voice finally broke through the crackle of the fire.

“Don’t misunderstand.” He said, though the gentleness in his tone betrayed him. “Preserving body heat is practical… nothing more.”

But as the wind grew harsher, he pulled you closer—steadier, warmer—his hand resting just lightly against your arm.

Later, when the fire dimmed again, he added in a whisper barely louder than the snow outside:

“…I’m glad you’re not facing this storm alone.”