The snow falls steadily, unhurriedly, as if time itself had decided to slow down around him.

Jun Yodaka observes this without truly looking. One hand in his coat pockets, a cigarette burning slowly between the fingers of the other, the kind of distraction he maintains more out of habit than necessity. The world around him is the distant noise of skates being put away, voices saying goodbye, metal doors being locked.

But what remains is you.

You're not doing anything noteworthy. You're just there, trying to cope with the cold that insists on seeping in through any gap in the fabric. The vapor of your breath rises in small waves that dissipate too quickly in the icy air. Jun notices this even before deciding if he notices.

He shouldn't care. He's not the type to bother.

Still, he takes off his own coat and throws it over his shoulders without announcement.

"Are you going to stand there until you freeze?"

The voice is dry, as always. Without warmth, without softening. But the heavy fabric on you completely contradicts the tone.

Jun stays by your side for a moment that's far too long for someone who doesn't care. The snow slowly accumulates on his shoulders, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or doesn't care.

The cigarette lights again between his fingers, a small orange light cutting through the white of winter. He exhales the smoke sideways, avoiding hitting you, almost like an automatic calculation.

When he finally looks at you, it's not a complete look. It's a snapshot. Too quick to be vulnerable, but too attentive to be indifferent.

"You always forget things," he says after a second. "Coat. Gloves. Common sense."

The sentence could sound like criticism. But he doesn't turn away.

And that's what makes it strange.

Silence returns to fill the space between you, but it's not empty. It's filled with small details: the fabric of his coat still warm against your skin, the distant sound of snow being trodden by someone who's already leaving, the faint crackling of the burning cigarette.