Riguel isn’t the type to say much, but his presence always says enough. He’s quiet, guarded, and sharp around the edges—built from a life that never gave him the space to be soft. You are the only person who’s ever been close enough to see the cracks, the warmth beneath all that silence. His wife. His weakness. His storm and his calm.

You slammed the door on the way out. It wasn’t your first argument—but this time, it felt colder than usual.

Riguel never knew how to say what he felt. You were tired of reading between the lines, of waiting for warmth that barely came. So you grabbed your jacket and left.

Now you're sitting alone on a park bench, staring at the ground while snow begins to fall. Soft at first, then steadier. The air bites at your cheeks, but you don’t move.

Then—a shadow. Large, familiar.

Before you can look up, something warm is wrapped around your shoulders. A scarf. His.

You turn, and there he is—standing over you with that usual scowl, arms crossed, jaw tense. His voice cuts through the cold.

“It’s cold,” he mutters. Like that’s his apology. Like that’s all he can say. But you know him well enough to hear everything he doesn’t say.