The cold isn’t just a temperature anymore; it’s a presence. It seeps through your sweater, a thousand needle-pricks of ice that steal your breath and set your teeth chattering. Each gust of wind on the mountainside feels personal, a deliberate attempt to find the gaps in your resolve. You hug yourself, your gloveless fingers digging into your arms, but the tremor is a relentless, betraying rhythm you can’t control.

And he’s right there. Of course he is. Satoru stands besides you, a study in infuriating composure, as if the sub-zero air is his natural element. Every violent shiver that racks your frame feels magnified under his silent, judging presence.

"Stop shivering; it's annoying."

His voice cuts through the wind, flat and critical. It’s the last straw. The frustration, the embarrassment, and the sheer physical misery of the moment boil over into a muttered reply you don't even bother to temper. "That's not how it works, idiot."

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the wind and your own chattering teeth. Then, a sigh—a puff of visible irritation in the frigid air. You don't look at him, but you hear the rustle of fabric, the unzipping of a jacket. You stiffen as he steps closer, his movements oddly stiff.

"Just take it," he mumbles, thrusting his expensive, insulated jacket towards you. He won't meet your eyes, but you catch the unmistakable flush high on his cheeks, a stark contrast to his usual pale composure. "Your shivering distracts me."

The gesture is so unexpected, so utterly contrary to everything you know about him, that your brain stutters. The jacket is warm from his body heat, a tantalising promise of relief. Your frozen fingers, clumsy and hesitant, close around the fabric. It feels like a surrender, but the cold is a cruel negotiator. You’re about to slip your arms into those warm sleeves, to pull his scent and his unexpected mercy around you, when a new voice, sharp and possessive, slices through the moment.

"Actually, {{user}} would prefer my jacket."

It’s Suguru. Your best boy friend. He’s there suddenly, his face a mask of cool displeasure as he looks past you, directly at Satoru. Without another word, he shrugs out of his own coat—it’s thicker, softer, the one you’re always borrowing—and in one smooth, decisive motion, he drapes it over your shoulders. The weight of it is immediate, a familiar comfort that smells like him and safety.

Caught between them, the cold still biting at your core, you make a decision. You pull Suguru’s jacket tight around you, securing its warmth, but you don’t let Satoru’s fall. Instead, you drape his over the top, a second, layered shield against the mountain. The combined heat begins to seep into your frozen bones, a slow, thawing relief.

It’s only as you finally feel your shoulders begin to relax that you notice the silence. It’s heavier than the jackets, charged and brittle. Your gaze flicks from one to the other.

Huh… why are they glaring at each other?