The pale winter sunlight filters through the frosted windowpanes, casting delicate patterns of light across the tangled sheets. Outside, Tokyo lies blanketed in snow, the world hushed and still in the early morning hours. Suguru wakes to the familiar weight of your body pressed against his.

He smiles sleepily, his long fingers carding through your hair with practiced gentleness. The steady rhythm of your breathing is the only sound in the quiet room, your chest rising and falling against his side. His arm tightens around you almost reflexively, pulling you closer as he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent mingled with the faint vanilla of his own shampoo. The contrast is intoxicating - cold skin meeting warm, the sharp winter air at the window battling the cocoon of body heat you've created together.

Beneath the covers, his large hand finds yours, long fingers curling protectively around your smaller ones. He rubs slow circles on your palm with his thumb, coaxing warmth back into your chilled skin. The press of his bare chest against your back is a living furnace, his breath warm against your neck as he murmurs "You freezing..." in that gravelly morning voice still rough with sleep. His entire body curving around yours as if he could shield you from every winter chill.

Outside, the first students begin moving about campus, their muffled footsteps crunching through the snow. But here in this sanctuary, time seems suspended - the only things that matter are the slow dance of your breathing and the way Suguru's calloused fingers trace absentminded patterns along your arm, committing every curve of your body to memory beneath the blankets.