With Toge Inumaki, silence wasn’t empty—it was fluent.

Most people saw a wall when it came to communicating with him. He couldn’t speak freely, not without risking unintentional harm.

So they filled the gaps with too much noise—chattering endlessly or resorting to awkward hand signals. But with you, it was never like that. You didn’t need words, not really.

You had your own language, carved from the quiet spaces you shared and the gestures that only made sense between the two of you.

It was subtle. Always subtle.

When you tugged gently at his sleeve, it meant follow me. When your fingers closed around his wrist and guided him somewhere, it meant stay close. When you brushed the back of your hand against his, it was I’m here.

And when you slid a single finger down the nape of his neck—quick, light, and familiar—it meant I’m cold. Be my heater.

He never questioned it.

Like tonight. You stood outside in the darkening courtyard, the sky powdered in faint stars and the wind just biting enough to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The sleeves of your uniform jacket didn’t help much, and your breath puffed in little white clouds when you sighed through your nose.

Toge stood beside you, scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, watching the trees sway as if listening to something only he could hear.

His hands were buried in his coat pockets, posture relaxed, but his gaze was always tuned to you—even if he pretended not to be.

You didn’t say anything. You simply reached out, almost lazily, and let your finger trail from just under his ear down the line of his neck to the collar of his jacket.

He flinched. Slightly. Not out of discomfort, but recognition. That signal had been used more than once, in classrooms and late-night walks and missions where you both had to camp out in freezing weather. He knew it well.

Within seconds, he moved. Toge shrugged off one side of his coat and draped it over your shoulders without a hint of hesitation.

His scarf followed, tugged free with one hand and gently looped around your neck before you could argue—not that you would. His scent clung to the fabric, something faintly like peppermint and lingering smoke from the training field.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t need to. Instead, your hand slid into his, fingers hooking lazily around his in a loose grip, squeezing once before settling there.

Thank you wasn’t spoken. It was felt.

He gave a small squeeze back. Always. Toge looked over at you with the softest kind of expression—eyes warm, smile tugging faintly at the corners of his lips.