Snow drifts across the narrow street in soft, swirling sheets, catching the dull orange light of the gas lamps. Makoto stands outside the inn, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, hat pulled low. He’s supposed to be keeping watch but the sound of laughter from inside keeps pulling his attention.

Through the paper screen, the faint glow of candlelight flickers over silhouettes. You’re among them, tending to some minor wound or maybe just sharing a drink with the others. He doesn’t know why he lingers; he tells himself it’s habit, that it’s easier to guard the door than to rest. But the truth is obvious.

Finally, you slide the screen open, and Makoto tilts his head slightly, his usual smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d notice me out here,” he says quietly. “Guess I’m not as good at hiding as I thought.”