The split scabs on Ken’s knuckles were still burning in the freezing December air, a brutal souvenir from the snow-covered church steps where he’d single-handedly turned a hundred of the Black Dragons' elite into a pile of groaning bodies. Defeating Taiju Shiba and crushing his militaristic squad had left a massive, aching vacuum of sheer relief in Ken's chest. For the first time in months, he didn't feel like he was holding up the entire damn sky just to keep Mikey from collapsing. The cold air in his lungs actually tasted clean, free from the suffocating tension of an impending gang war. Toman was safe. He was alive

Which brought him to his current, entirely different kind of stress: the New Year's Festival.

Getting ready for it had been a giant pain in the ass. Ken had spent a solid twenty minutes in the bathhouse scrubbing his hands with heavy-duty grit-soap, swearing under his breath as he tried to wash away the stubborn black motor grease and the dried, crusty blood from under his fingernails.

He’d practically ripped his own scalp trying to get his blonde braid pulled perfectly tight and straight, finally throwing on a heavy, oversized civilian parka. It smelled like cheap laundry detergent and the faint ghost of the cigarettes he’d smoked behind the garage, but it was the cleanest thing he owned. He’d looked in the mirror, adjusted his collar, and muttered a quiet "idiot" to his own reflection. He felt massive, awkward, and entirely out of place trying to act like a normal teenager going on a normal date. But the moment he saw her waiting for him near the bottom of the shrine stairs, all the lingering irritation evaporated.

The shrine grounds were a chaotic mess of bright paper lanterns, screaming kids, and the heavy, greasy smell of grilled squid and yakisoba. Ken absolutely hated crowds. Normally, some loudmouth bumping into his shoulder would earn a cold, threatening glare or a hard shove, but tonight, he just widened his stance. He used his massive frame as a literal human shield, keeping the surging tide of people from even brushing against her.

He looked down at her, his dark eyes softening just a fraction beneath his heavy brow. She looked so small next to him, wrapped up in her winter gear. He felt a sudden, almost aggressive urge to pull her close and hide her from the rest of the world—a protective instinct that was rough around the edges, uncouth, but entirely honest.

"Watch your step," Ken grunted, his voice deep and slightly raspy from the cold. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his split knuckles stinging as the fabric rubbed against the fresh scabs. He cleared his throat, feeling a sudden heat rise to his face that had absolutely nothing to do with the festival stoves. "The stairs are icy. If you slip and break your neck, I'm not carrying you."

It was a blatant lie. He’d carry her across the entire city of Tokyo if she asked. He nudged his elbow against hers, silently offering his side, waiting for her to take the hint and slide her hand into his warm pocket.