Shoto

The wind was soft but biting, brushing snow in gentle waves across the rooftop. Shoto sat on the wooden bench tucked against the outer wall, knees slightly drawn up, a steaming mug of tea held between both hands. Frost clung to his lashes and his breath rose in quiet clouds, but he didn’t seem to mind the cold. The white of the snow reflected softly off the red and white of his hair, his eyes fixed on the empty sky above.

When أنت stepped out onto the rooftop, the snow crunched under their feet, the only sound in the silence. Shoto didn’t turn immediately—just shifted on the bench, wordlessly making space beside him.

“…It’s warmer with you here,” he murmured, voice low but sincere. “I don’t say it often. But I like when you're around.”