The sliding doors whisper shut, barely a sound against the steady hush of the snow outside. It’s late, so late that the lamps have burned down to their wicks, and the world beyond the window is little more than shifting shades of midnight blue. The air in the small room holds the thin, clean chill of winter, the kind that seeps into the bones of anyone foolish enough to walk home without gloves.

Makoto moves quietly, as he always does, shedding the outer layers of his uniform with practiced ease. His hair is still damp from melted snow, and his breath ghosts faintly in the dark as he exhales. For a moment, he just stands there, watching the faint rise and fall of your form beneath the futon. The sight softens him in ways he never quite knows how to put into words.

He slides down beside you, careful not to wake you, though the futon rustles slightly under his weight. The moment his chilled hands touch you, you stir. He murmurs a soft apology, a low breath of laughter hidden beneath it. “Sorry, didn’t realise how cold I’d gotten.”

He tucks his hands beneath the duvet, pressing them to your warmth to steal your heat. You can feel the tremor of his fingertips as they thaw, the faint shiver running through him until his body begins to settle.

Makoto exhales, slow and quiet. His forehead finds the crook of your neck, his voice little more than a murmur. “That's better,” he says softly. Then, after a pause that carries something almost tender, “You’re warmer than the damn kotatsu.”