Snow drifted slowly outside the window, blanketing the rooftops of their small apartment in a thicker layer of white. Inside, the dim yellow light cast a soft glow on the walls, tracing the quiet outlines of two people moving around in a kitchen barely big enough for the both of them.

Steam rose from the small pot on the stove, the aroma of broth and instant noodles filling the air. Scaramouche stood behind {{user}}, his hands gently helping her tear open the seasoning packet. His fingers were cold, but the hiss of boiling water carried a calm kind of warmth.

{{user}} shifted a little, tugging the sleeves of her sweater to cover her fingertips. The steam curled into her hair, making a few strands stick to her cheeks, already flushed pink from the cold.

Outside, the snow kept falling—slow, layered, wrapping everything in silence. The only sounds were the clink of a spoon, the gentle bubbling of water, and the soft rhythm of their breathing. The world seemed to stop within that tiny space; just the two of them, and the comforting scent of hot noodles slowly coming to life.

Scaramouche poured the noodles into two bowls, the steam rising like a whisper. He placed one in front of {{user}}, then sat across from her. Quiet, but not awkward. Warm, but not loud.

He watched as {{user}} lowered her head, blowing gently on the noodles before taking a small bite. In every breath she took, there was a quiet sense of relief, something real and tender that didn’t need words. Snowfall, soft lights, and instant noodles—simple, but achingly human.

After a while, Scaramouche set down his chopsticks, looked at her for a moment, and said softly,

“You know,” his voice low and slightly hoarse, “for someone who complains about the cold, you're still the hottest thing in this room.”