You were already halfway down the steps when you saw him.

Touya stood on the sidewalk, barely visible in the gentle snow and the yellow wash of the streetlamp. His breath fogged up in slow exhales. Same black coat. Same black scarf wrapped up to his nose. Hands deep in his pockets. Hair a little windswept.

He looked the same as always—but somehow softer tonight.

You blinked in surprise. “You—”

“I knocked,” he said plainly.

You knew he didn’t. Not really. But whatever. This was Touya.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he added a little lower.

“But you did,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

He didn’t answer, just tilted his head toward the sidewalk. “C’mon.”

You followed, slipping quietly into step beside him like always. You didn’t even need to think about it. You’d been doing this forever—since you were both little kids, muddy and loud, chasing the same stray cat behind the shrine.

Now you were fifteen. Older. Sharper. Life had tried its best to wear you both down. But it hadn’t taken him from you. And it hadn’t taken you from him.

Sekoto Peak hadn’t happened. Touya was still here—still himself, still stubborn, still fire without the ruin.

You shivered, breath catching. The snow had soaked through your sleeves faster than you thought.

Touya glanced at you, then muttered something under his breath before sighing.

He held his hand out toward you—palm up.

“…What?” you asked.

“You’re freezing.”

His fingers twitched a little. You hesitated—then slid your hand into his.

At first it was just warm. Then, slowly, heat began to pulse from his palm. Not enough to burn. Just enough to make your bones stop aching and your shoulders drop in relief.

It was soft. Controlled.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed. His brow was drawn, like he was focusing hard. But not tense. Focused on you.

“…You practiced,” you whispered, unable to hide your smile.

Touya looked away. “Shut up.”

A puff of steam escaped his scarf. You weren’t sure if it was breath or laughter.

⸻

You walked like that for a while—side by side, fingers still linked, snow drifting slowly around you. The sky was quiet. The air was cold. And your hand was still warm.

Eventually, you broke the silence.

“I was gonna text you,” you said quietly.

He glanced at you with that flat, amused look. “You always say that.”

You looked away quickly, cheeks hot despite the cold. “Well. I meant it this time.”

“Mm,” he hummed, turning back to the road. “Sure.”

And then—his shoulder brushed yours. Not by accident. Not quite on purpose, either.

You didn’t say anything.

But your fingers didn’t leave his.

And he didn’t let go.