It’s Snowing Again
By the time the heater kicks in, the windows are already frosted over.

The soft whir of the space heater, the quiet low hum of the house settling in the winter cold, accompanied by the whispery tick of the wall clock—this is what fills the room as you sit curled into a corner of Kenma’s couch, wrapped in a too-warm blanket that smells subtly like cedar and fresh detergent. Christmas lights—tiny white ones, steady and uncomplicated—hang along the wall by the TV, throwing faint, flickering shadows across the room. The air tastes like tangerines, faintly sweet and citrusy, from the peels discarded at the center of the small kotatsu between you.

Kenma’s beside you, close enough that the woven fabric of his pajama bottoms is brushing against your knee. His eyes, heavy-lidded but sharp, are illuminated softly by the glare of his portable gaming console, his shoulders hunched loosely like he’s just a little cold. He’s not wearing his headset tonight—not while the game he’s playing clicks softly in rhythm. You’d called it a “nice change of pace” earlier, and his only response had been a half-focused hum from the back of his throat. Now, here you are, staring too long at how the flickers from the string lights catch gold in his hair.

Snow’s falling outside. Another light dusting, soft flakes catching against your shared breath from just earlier in the evening when you both stood on the frosted sidewalk outside his house. He’d offered you an umbrella, red and cheap-looking, and you’d both stood under it, waiting for the sky to turn draped gray until his tekkie fingers tugged you back inside. You’ll catch a cold, he’d said quietly, glancing at you with the faintest hint of exasperation.

Back inside now, you shift under the blanket, angling yourself toward him, watching a little longer than you should. His scarf from earlier is still sitting on the armrest beside him—it’s a little uneven, the loose knit fraying at the edges where his mom’s cat had clawed it. The faint marks of wear mirrored a memory of Kenma himself somehow, you think. You’re about to reach out for it, maybe make a fleeting comment just for the sake of hearing his voice, but your hand pauses midair as he slowly sets his console facedown.

“What?” His gaze flickers to you before scanning the table like he doesn’t want to meet your eyes for too long. It’s always like that with Kenma, like directness is something he has to mete out in small doses.

“Oh—nothing,” you stammer, trying too late to cover up the fact that you’d been staring at him. You retreat back under the blanket, holding your hands together to stop them from fidgeting.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, expressionlessly neutral save for a faint Christmas warmth that lingers in the undertone. His head tilts slightly, making that long strand of dark hair that won’t ever stay tied up slip closer to his face again. He doesn’t move to fix it, but you don’t either.

“You’re staring,” he comments absentmindedly, fingers reaching over to grab the last tangerine off the table.

“You’re imagining things,” you respond quickly, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

“I’m not,” he murmurs, peeling the tangerine in slow, precise motions, each curl falling from his fingers like flower petals. “You do that a lot.”

“What—stare at you?”

“Yeah.”

There’s no malice in his tone, no bite to the word. If anything, it’s quiet acknowledgment, and that makes your ears burn that much worse. You bury your face into the fabric of the blanket, breaking eye contact from his study of you.

“Maybe I only do it because you never say anything first.” Your voice comes out weaker than you mean.

“Maybe.” His voice drifts, low enough, secretive enough, that it makes you wish he would look up at you, at least for a full second longer. Please say something more. The weight of your heart sinks like stones in a clear lake, where you wish you could gauge his thoughts.

And, then, just as you’re about to say something else, warmly spinning a million words together in your head, you feel it—Kenma’s arm brushes yours. He shifts closer, his smell tinged faintly of wood, dry shampoo, and the faint scent of dekapan detergent sharp against faint gold.

You dare to look up at him. His focus, for once, wavers to you. His gaze flits lower—to the blanket swaddling you—and his lips part slightly. “Do you, uh…” He hesitates for a second in a way so uniquely Kenma—a tightening of his fingers. Then he quietly pushes on. “Do you… wanna sit closer?”

Your brain blanks in the space where warmth floods in. “Closer?”

He nods, and the soft muffle of his hair catches against the light behind him as his head dips lower. “It’s cold. Or—uh, I mean…” The way he fidgets, searching for careful justification, makes you want to laugh softly, but you don’t, too caught in the way his top lip catches his lower as he tries again. “You said it was cold earlier.”

Your heart’s breathing a little faster now, so much so that you think it might knock the table when you move. But you nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Just slightly raises one arm to drape over you, holding the end of the blanket to readjust where it covers you both. There’s an awkward moment as you both shift to find the right angle, but when you settle, nestled into his side, you immediately feel the comforting heat radiating from him, even through the thin fabric of his pajama shirt. His hand, careful and ghost-like in motion, moves the faintest centimeter to rest—barely—with a touch grazing your hip under the fabric.

“Better?” he murmurs, gaze still half-locked on the dim Christmas lights you—you think he finds excuse to suppress soft words through mechanical "incidental rolls.”

You blink over the shoulder of his outline. But you relax anyway—a small curl pressing against—what seems as certainty instead of string-bound words dying at the pit of your stomach.

"Better warmth..."


It’s Snowing Again
By the time the heater kicks in, the windows are already frosted over.

The soft whir of the space heater, the quiet low hum of the house settling in the winter cold, accompanied by the whispery tick of the wall clock—this is what fills the room as you sit curled into a corner of Kenma’s couch, wrapped in a too-warm blanket that smells subtly like cedar and fresh detergent. Christmas lights—tiny white ones, steady and uncomplicated—hang along the wall by the TV, throwing faint, flickering shadows across the room. The air tastes like tangerines, faintly sweet and citrusy, from the peels discarded at the center of the small kotatsu between you.

Kenma’s beside you, close enough that the woven fabric of his pajama bottoms is brushing against your knee. His eyes, heavy-lidded but sharp, are illuminated softly by the glare of his portable gaming console, his shoulders hunched loosely like he’s just a little cold. He’s not wearing his headset tonight—not while the game he’s playing clicks softly in rhythm. You’d called it a “nice change of pace” earlier, and his only response had been a half-focused hum from the back of his throat. Now, here you are, staring too long at how the flickers from the string lights catch gold in his hair.

Snow’s falling outside. Another light dusting, soft flakes catching against your shared breath from just earlier in the evening when you both stood on the frosted sidewalk outside his house. He’d offered you an umbrella, red and cheap-looking, and you’d both stood under it, waiting for the sky to turn draped gray until his tekkie fingers tugged you back inside. You’ll catch a cold, he’d said quietly, glancing at you with the faintest hint of exasperation.

Back inside now, you shift under the blanket, angling yourself toward him, watching a little longer than you should. His scarf from earlier is still sitting on the armrest beside him—it’s a little uneven, the loose knit fraying at the edges where his mom’s cat had clawed it. The faint marks of wear mirrored a memory of Kenma himself somehow, you think. You’re about to reach out for it, maybe make a fleeting comment just for the sake of hearing his voice, but your hand pauses midair as he slowly sets his console facedown.

“What?” His gaze flickers to you before scanning the table like he doesn’t want to meet your eyes for too long. It’s always like that with Kenma, like directness is something he has to mete out in small doses.

“Oh—nothing,” you stammer, trying too late to cover up the fact that you’d been staring at him. You retreat back under the blanket, holding your hands together to stop them from fidgeting.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, expressionlessly neutral save for a faint Christmas warmth that lingers in the undertone. His head tilts slightly, making that long strand of dark hair that won’t ever stay tied up slip closer to his face again. He doesn’t move to fix it, but you don’t either.

“You’re staring,” he comments absentmindedly, fingers reaching over to grab the last tangerine off the table.

“You’re imagining things,” you respond quickly, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

“I’m not,” he murmurs, peeling the tangerine in slow, precise motions, each curl falling from his fingers like flower petals. “You do that a lot.”

“What—stare at you?”

“Yeah.”

There’s no malice in his tone, no bite to the word. If anything, it’s quiet acknowledgment, and that makes your ears burn that much worse. You bury your face into the fabric of the blanket, breaking eye contact from his study of you.

“Maybe I only do it because you never say anything first.” Your voice comes out weaker than you mean.

“Maybe.” His voice drifts, low enough, secretive enough, that it makes you wish he would look up at you, at least for a full second longer. Please say something more. The weight of your heart sinks like stones in a clear lake, where you wish you could gauge his thoughts.

And, then, just as you’re about to say something else, warmly spinning a million words together in your head, you feel it—Kenma’s arm brushes yours. He shifts closer, his smell tinged faintly of wood, dry shampoo, and the faint scent of dekapan detergent sharp against faint gold.

You dare to look up at him. His focus, for once, wavers to you. His gaze flits lower—to the blanket swaddling you—and his lips part slightly. “Do you, uh…” He hesitates for a second in a way so uniquely Kenma—a tightening of his fingers. Then he quietly pushes on. “Do you… wanna sit closer?”

Your brain blanks in the space where warmth floods in. “Closer?”

He nods, and the soft muffle of his hair catches against the light behind him as his head dips lower. “It’s cold. Or—uh, I mean…” The way he fidgets, searching for careful justification, makes you want to laugh softly, but you don’t, too caught in the way his top lip catches his lower as he tries again. “You said it was cold earlier.”

Your heart’s breathing a little faster now, so much so that you think it might knock the table when you move. But you nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Just slightly raises one arm to drape over you, holding the end of the blanket to readjust where it covers you both. There’s an awkward moment as you both shift to find the right angle, but when you settle, nestled into his side, you immediately feel the comforting heat radiating from him, even through the thin fabric of his pajama shirt. His hand, careful and ghost-like in motion, moves the faintest centimeter to rest—barely—with a touch grazing your hip under the fabric.

“Better?” he murmurs, gaze still half-locked on the dim Christmas lights you—you think he finds excuse to suppress soft words through mechanical "incidental rolls.”

You blink over the shoulder of his outline. But you relax anyway—a small curl pressing against—what seems as certainty instead of string-bound words dying at the pit of your stomach.

"Better warmth..."(make this fic longer, so that it's 3000 words. you can add your own plot details to add on to this)