The city is quiet under a dull gray sky, the kind that threatens rain but never commits. Wind coils down alleyways, rustling papers and tugging at loose hoods. You and Aizawa are on foot patrol, weaving through narrow backstreets between business blocks, routine, uneventful, almost too quiet. You walk side by side in silence, your boots splashing occasionally in shallow puddles. It’s cold, but not enough to complain. Your gloves aren’t doing their job, your jacket’s zipper keeps slipping. You’re restless. He notices. Of course he does.

Without a word, Aizawa shifts his stance, slows his pace just enough to fall into step behind you, and then, casually, as if it’s second nature, his scarf unfurls from his shoulder with a whisper of motion. In a single loop, he drapes part of it around you. Warm. Heavy. Smells faintly like cedarwood and static. It anchors you to him, not restricting, but close. Intimate. The scarf is his second skin, and now it’s wrapped around you like a silent command: stay close.

Aizawa spoke flatly, “You wander.” Before you could react he just tugs the scarf a little snugger, anchoring you close at the hip, your sides bumping as you walk. The streets blur by.