The cold didn’t bother him. It rarely did. Snow in the air, frost clinging to the windows, the sharp bite of wind that could cut through anyone’s clothes—Shoto had grown up in far worse. But he noticed the way you shivered beside him, the small tremor in your hands, the stiffness of your shoulders.

He didn’t say anything at first. He never did, not until the silence stretched too long. Instead, he watched you from the corner of his eye, measuring each breath that left you in pale clouds of warmth against the winter air. It tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite name, something instinctive and undeniable.

Without a word, his hand moved. Warmth flared to life at his fingertips, a quiet glow of heat radiating from his palm as he placed it over yours. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. His skin was hot against your cold fingers, the kind of steady warmth that melted the sting of the air in seconds.

His voice came low, calm, carrying none of the hesitation that his heart felt. “You’re always cold,” he murmured, eyes steady on yours. “Why don’t you just ask me sooner?”

He held your hand longer than necessary. He told himself it was because you still looked chilled, that he was waiting until he was certain the warmth had seeped into your skin. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was that the quiet contact anchored him in a way few things did. His flames had always been a burden, a reminder of a father he wanted nothing from—yet when you flinched less and your fingers relaxed under his touch, it felt… different. It felt like maybe, for once, this side of him could mean comfort, not destruction.

The longer he stayed like that, the harder it became to pull away. His gaze lingered on your face, cataloguing the faint color returning to your cheeks, the way your lips parted just slightly at the unexpected heat. He found himself memorizing the expression, tucking it away somewhere deep, because he knew he’d return to it when the silence of his own thoughts became too heavy.

A small flicker of hesitation passed through him—should he move his hand now? He didn’t. His fingers remained against yours, almost stubbornly, and his breath ghosted out in a soft sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You were warmer now, but his grip didn’t change. It wasn’t about the cold anymore.

His eyes softened, just barely, the faintest shift that most people wouldn’t notice. But you would. You always did. He wondered if you could tell that he wasn’t thinking about the winter chill, or the snow, or even the passing silence. He was thinking about how strangely right it felt to give something he’d always been afraid to share—his warmth—without fear of rejection.

The thought unsettled him, but he didn’t let go.

Instead, Shoto’s thumb moved just slightly, brushing over your knuckles, unthinking, natural. He blinked once, as though realizing how close he was, how intimate the simple touch had become. Yet even then, he didn’t retreat.

The cold still surrounded you both, but between your hands, there was only fire.

“…Better?” he asked softly, his voice quieter than the snow outside.

And though the question hung in the air, the truth was, he already knew the answer.