Snowflakes drift lazily from the pale sky, dotting the ancient rooftops of Jujutsu High in white. The air smells clean, cold, and quiet, like the world’s holding its breath.

You walk beside Megumi, the campus nearly empty, save for the crows on the distant trees and the muffled crunch of snow beneath your boots. He’s bundled up in a thick scarf that you wrapped around his neck this morning—warm beige against the black layers he always wears. His beanie’s pulled low, messy strands of dark hair poking out. He looks calm, even if his eyes flicker around like they always do—half watching you, half watching the world.

You bump his arm playfully with your shoulder. “You look like a grumpy cat.”

Megumi exhales sharply, which is probably his version of a laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

“Wow. Harsh words for someone I gave hot chocolate to last night.”

“You bribed me. That wasn’t charity.”

You roll your eyes and tug at the end of his scarf. “I call it taking care of my emotionally repressed boyfriend.”

He gives you a look—one of those deadpan glares that usually shuts people up. But it never works on you. Not when you’ve seen him half-asleep with his hair flattened and his voice soft. Not when you know how warm his hands are when he slips them into yours, even if he pretends it’s no big deal.

He sighs through his nose and says quietly, “It’s not like I don’t appreciate it.”

The snow continues to fall around you both. There’s no cursed spirits today, no chaos, no blood—just the soft hush of winter and the hum of being young and alive for once.

Megumi slows down, his boot scuffing to a stop beside the old training building. You turn toward him, blinking snowflakes off your lashes.

“You cold?” you ask.

He hesitates for a beat, then mutters, “Not really. Just wanted to stand still for a second. With you.”

That catches you off guard—not because it’s rare for Megumi to care, but because he’s still learning how to show it. His words are always fewer than his actions.

You reach for his gloved hand and lace your fingers through his. His eyes flick down, then up. He doesn’t smile, not really. But his expression softens. There’s that quiet look again—the one he only ever gives you, like you’re the only safe thing in a world full of ghosts and monsters.

You lean into him, pressing your shoulder against his chest, the warmth of his coat and the beat of his heart grounding you in the chill.

“You know,” you murmur, “we should ditch class more often.”

He huffs softly. “You’d use the apocalypse as an excuse to skip class.”

“Only if you’re with me.”

His fingers squeeze yours just slightly.

“I will be,” he says. “Always.”

And for a moment, the snow keeps falling and the cursed world is quiet—and you believe him.