caramel locks.

01 hand

LATE NIGHT WALKS ALWAYS CONSIST OF frigid air biting your skin as it trickles down to your face then to your feet and you would often tug your hands on your sweater's pocket because kozume kenma doesn't like disruptions of the silence you two comfortingly crafted, he knows you're prone to bubble up complaints from time to time and he couldn't blame you truly.

the moments you two share in this hour are the contradictions hammering in your head because when we say cold, its the claws of winter gnawing inside and you can't help but scrunch your nose in resentment, but you're standing on the point between the extremes, and on your right ( figuratively and literally speaking ), is the fervent passion with the heat of the scorching sun burning the surfaces, and also, the human warmth.

he stole a quick glance at your open right hand before leaving himself question silently at this. your left is shoved in your pocket, eyes had no light sparked up inside and yet you're not fazed when the tips of your finger grows stone cold. each time passing by, the more he can't help himself breaks his attention upfront to your hand.

are you telling him something ? did he do something wrong ? what was he supposed to do ?

not that you're boyfriend buries his words under his throat nor did he ever chokes up when he can't hold it in, but at times like this ? it's simply not possible, . kenma creases his eyebrows before another pair of cat eyes peek into the abstract space between fingertips, he'd imagine slipping his to close that gap, to fill in that void, to no longer wonder why the weather was seething of winter cold despite being kept in springtime.

you let out a slight shaky breath underneath your scarf, scoffing as you felt it clinging to you a litte tight while fixing it, still staying silent, at least— in avoidance of ruining the atmosphere.

but accidentally, flickering your gaze to him in a flash turned to a slow melting stars of time twinkling your irises, witnessing him with his awkward straight stroke of his lips and a blushing mess, along with eyes traveling somewhere, anywhere but you, though a little darker shade casts through the natural picture ( because obviously, the night spreads the horizon ), you swear you could see the chalk pink dusting off his cheeks.

before you could even react, you already felt warmth engulfing your almost crisped hand.

then with eyes wider than the capability of your surrounding's temperature to flood you down to shivers, he abruptly tighten his grip. an action that tells something for you, and only you that understands in an outstretched viewpoint, to where all wonders exist and the only way to capture all of it is to notice.

a smile crept up on your pretty face before stepping forth once more, a soft caress of a hot compress touches your face.

'i haven't hold your hand for a while. damn its so cold' perhaps he'd be the one to complain today.