Winter settles in quietly, the kind of cold that seeps through walls and into bones. You realize it the moment you step outside—your breath fogging, fingers stiff almost instantly.

Megumi notices before you say anything.

He doesn’t comment. He just slows his pace, walking slightly closer until your shoulders brush. Then, without looking at you, his hand slips into yours—warm, steady, grounding. His thumb rubs small circles against your knuckles like it’s second nature.

“Cold?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Before you can respond, he tugs you gently closer and opens his coat just enough for your hand to disappear into his pocket—with his. Your fingers fit perfectly there, and he closes the fabric around them like it was meant to be that way.

The wind picks up. Megumi shifts again, wordlessly stepping in front of it, his body blocking the worst of the cold. You notice how he positions himself—always between you and the wind, between you and anything that might be uncomfortable.

Your scarf slips loose as you walk.

He stops.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, fingers already lifting it back into place. He loops it carefully around your neck, adjusting it until it sits just right. For a moment his hands linger, brushing your jaw, your collarbone—then he pulls back like he’s remembered himself.

You smile. He looks away.

By the time you’re back inside the dorms, the cold has chased you into exhaustion. You kick off your shoes and collapse onto the bed, tugging a blanket around your shoulders. Megumi sits beside you, pretending to check his phone, pretending not to notice when you shuffle closer—closer—until your head rests against his chest.

He exhales softly and lifts the blanket without a word, wrapping it around both of you.

You curl into him easily, arms slipping around his neck, legs tucked against his side. In winter, he never tells you to stop clinging. His arm comes around your waist instead, pulling you in until your back is flush against him.

“You’re freezing,” he mutters.

He cups your hands between his palms, rubbing them slowly, then brings them up and breathes warm air over your fingers. His brows knit together in quiet concentration, like this is a task he takes seriously.

Eventually, your eyelids grow heavy.

Your head tips forward, then settles against his shoulder. You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake later, still there—still wrapped in him. His arm hasn’t moved. His posture hasn’t changed.

His hand rests warm and firm at your waist, fingers curled like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Outside, the cold presses against the windows.

Inside, Megumi keeps you warm—silent, steady, and completely yours.