It was colder than you expected.

The rooftop was empty, save for the hum of distant traffic and the low rustle of wind against the chain-link fence. You’d come up here to think, to breathe—but the chill had crept in fast, biting through your sleeves.

You didn’t hear him arrive.

Just the soft scrape of boots on concrete, and then his voice—low, rough, unmistakable.

“You’re gonna catch something, sitting out here like that.”

You turned. Shinjiro stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brow furrowed like he was already annoyed with himself for coming.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your arms were wrapped tight around yourself.

He didn’t argue.

He just shrugged off his coat and tossed it toward you.

It landed beside you with a heavy thud—warm, worn, and unmistakably his.

You blinked. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m not made of glass,” he muttered, looking away. “Just put it on.”

You hesitated, then slipped it over your shoulders. It smelled like smoke and metal and something steady. Something safe.

He sat down beside you—not close, but not far. The silence stretched between you, familiar now. Comfortable.

After a while, you spoke. “You didn’t have to come.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say I did.”

You glanced at him. “But you did.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

And in that quiet, wind-bitten space, wrapped in the warmth he pretended not to offer, you realized something:

Shinjiro didn’t say much.

But he always showed up.