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Katsuki still isn’t sure why he agreed to this.
Maybe it was the dismay of taking a train then walking twenty-five minutes to reach the only café in the city that makes a good fucking hot chocolate, only to realize it shut down two weeks ago without him ever having the chance to bid it farewell. Maybe it was the seasonal atmosphere—all glittering lights, festivals and street markets, and his friends telling him to lighten up because it was the holidays.
Or maybe it was the way Shouto had suggested they go out to find a new place. Face calm and searching, his low voice so genuine that it made Katsuki falter, a snarky remark dying on his tongue.
It’s hard to counter that level of earnestness. The half-and-half bastard is a major pain in Katsuki’s ass, but the sheer conviction he pours into these ridiculous attempts to drag Katsuki into friendship makes the idea of rejecting him feel like shoving away a little kitten pawing at his lap.
So, here he is. Standing outside the U.A. gates in a coat on a weekend afternoon, checking his watch.
He’s mentally planning how he’ll chew Shouto out for his lateness, already approaching thirty seconds, when he hears a familiar voice say, “Bakugou,” behind him. He spins, and his rant dies in his throat.
Handsome. He immediately wants to punch himself but his mind won’t stop repeating it in the bright flashes of a neon sign. His red-and-white hair, falling artfully over his forehead. The intensity in his eyes, even when he’s calm, gone stormy in the overcast weather.
It’s not the first time he’s noted that Shouto is attractive—he has eyes, and ears that don’t miss the crude things he’s had the misfortune to overhear in the hallways—but maybe it’s getting out of the school environment and seeing him in casual wear that’s making the extent of it sink in. He’s wearing a burgundy sweater that brings out the faintest undertone of red in his cheeks, along with a scarf, and it should look clunky but he makes the outfit come across as the pinnacle of elegance. Asshole.
“Bakugou?” Shouto says, more of a question this time.
“That’s me,” Katsuki says, like an idiot.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Huh? You’re the one that came late!”
“I’m right on time,” he points out. “Were you waiting?”
“Of course not.” It could be the ten-minute wait in the frigid weather that’s giving Katsuki all these weird thoughts. That must be it. Brain freeze, or something like that. “You got somewhere in mind or did you drag me out here to waste my time?”
“I have a list,” Shouto announces, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolds it to reveal his neat handwriting, surrounded by a few cat doodles. “We need to take a bus.”
He almost makes a dumb comment about how the top-ranked hero makes his son take the bus, but then his brain supplies him with the horrible image of Endeavor driving them around town while trying to impart whatever he considers paternal advice, so he decides to keep his mouth shut and fall into step alongside Shouto.
Once the bus arrives, Shouto stands to the right of the open doors, looking at Katsuki expectantly. The chivalry of it is almost annoying; he makes sure to bump into Shouto with his shoulder as he climbs on, and there’s no protest from behind him, which is even more annoying.
The bus isn’t that crowded, so they take two of the seats closest to the front. It’s quiet, with only a few students clustered near the back, whispering in hushed voices. It’s been a long time since Katsuki went out, let alone with one of his classmates, and despite the ridiculous amount of time they had to spend together during their internship and remedial training, he never really thought he’d break his streak of studying over the weekends to go out with Todoroki Shouto.
It feels different, in some way he can’t exactly describe. Like a new charge has been struck in the air, crackling down a cord. He’s very aware of Shouto’s presence beside him; the little twitches in his fingers, the almost imperceptible motion of his breaths.
Annoyed at himself, Katsuki shifts in his seat, resisting the urge to glance sideways. He’s listening to this guy breathe. What the fuck.
“It’s this stop,” Shouto says, saving him from his thoughts.
It takes him a second to place where they are. His parents used to take him here as a kid; one of those paved streets lined with shops on either side and rows of young trees, bursting to the brim with bakeries, bookstores, and a whole lot of other cutesy attractions that lead to the ever-present barrage of tourists. A small model of a town, the perfect core of a snow globe, done up for the holidays in colorful lights.
“There's a nice café here,” Shouto tells him. “I've only ever had their tea, but my sister told me their hot chocolate is really good.”
He stares. “You asked your sister?”
“It was part of my research,” he says matter-of-factly. “In-person interviews.”
He snorts. It makes a small, satisfied look flash over Shouto’s face, and Katsuki has no idea what to do with that. He’s never seen anyone look so pleased to have gotten a positive reaction out of him before. It shouldn’t surprise him—Shouto has always been blatant about how deeply he cares for those around him, once they get past his initial coldness—but somehow it always does.
Shouto doesn’t wait for further comment, turning on his heel and setting off down the street. Clearly, there’s a plan they’re adhering to, and it’s easier than he thought to find contentment in trailing in Shouto’s wake.
Besides, it’s calming to walk in the winter air, so crisp it almost burns his nose, ripe with the smell of roasted chestnuts. As grudgingly lovable as the gang of idiots always surrounding him are, it takes a certain kind of energy to be charged up to a hundred percent all the time. Even if he doesn’t bother to put on a show, he’s always tuned in, listening to their tangents, weighing in on lighthearted arguments.
It’s nice to put all of that aside and listen to the background noise around them, birds chirping and distant car engines, familiar Christmas tunes.
“It’s here,” Shouto says, far sooner than he’d expected.
He’s stopped in front of a small shop, with fogged-up windows and a chalkboard in front announcing Seasonal Special: Hot Chocolate Flight. A knee-high flower pot stands guard at the door, filled with a few pink and fuchsia petunias, clearly well-cared for. It’s not a lot to make a judgment on, but part of Katsuki had wondered yesterday night whether Shouto would take him to a ridiculously fancy hotel bar, so he’s almost relieved it’s so casual.
Shouto pushes the door open and holds it for Katsuki, who doesn’t bother arguing about it. The interior is snug, with even more fairy lights dangling from the ceiling and paintings of various pastel landscapes hung up over the walls.
“My café wasn’t this cutesy,” he mumbles all the same, shooting Shouto a side-eye.
“Your café wasn’t the universal standard.”
They sit at a table near the window with a view of the steady stream of people passing by outside, a glimpse of a thousand different lives. There’s lo-fi playing over the speakers, just loud enough that it takes up space in the silence without being distracting. Stops him from thinking too hard about the fact that the only other customers here are clearly a couple. It shouldn’t matter, anyway—this isn’t a date. A date is holding hands and sharing drinks and crepes in the park.
When the waitress comes, Shouto speaks up before Katsuki has a chance to. “Hello. We’ll have a hot chocolate flight, please.”
“Just one?”
“We’re sharing,” Shouto confirms. Well, shit. Still—one out of three. That’s not even a majority. At the very least, a simple majority is required to qualify an outing as a date, and this is still firmly in Not-Date territory.
She smiles and nods, flitting back to the counter.
Katsuki scowls, though it’s never worked on Shouto before. “I could have ordered for myself.”
“I know,” he says plainly. “But this is what they’re known for. It comes in a set of three different flavors. I thought it would be enough for both of us since we're going somewhere else after this.”
It’s hard to argue with that. Normally Katsuki would find a way, but Shouto’s looking over at a painting on the wall—a cat sitting by a waveless ocean, sky streaked in shades of pink and vermillion—with a subtle, interested tilt to his head and Katsuki’s treading in clear, blue waters, slow waves pushing all the noise out of his head.
Soon, the waitress returns with their order: a wooden tray shaped like a leaf holding three small mugs. One is topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon, another with a sprig of mint and chocolate shavings, and the last with tiny marshmallows, half-melted and bobbing in the frothy surface.
“Fancy,” Katsuki comments. “You wanna take the second one, Candy Cane?”
Shouto cracks a smile and reaches for it, lifting it to his lips. His fingers are ridiculously graceful, nails clean and trimmed. This is the perfect moment to find a flaw, when there are no extras yelling to distract or the swift blur of movement during a sparring match to mess up his concentration, but it’s as good as sifting through the sand for coal. It’s a picture that only makes sense from afar—Shouto is annoying as fuck, but when inching closer, the image dissolves into blobs of colour.
Resigned, he goes for the hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. It’s sweet, too sweet, but the whipped cream has a pleasant freshness to it that cuts through the richness.
“How is it?” Shouto prompts.
“Too watery. The cream ain’t bad, though.”
“Hm.” He takes another sip of the hot chocolate. “Mine’s not that watery. Want to try it?”
“Huh?”
Shouto leans over and sets the mug down in front of him. Katsuki stares at him, but there’s no indication that he’s joking, so he accepts his fate, reaching for the mug with trembling fingers.
A tingle runs down his spine as his lips meet warm ceramic, brushing over the spot where Shouto’s mouth had been. The thought hits him like a spark catching on dry kindling, spreading warmth from his chest to his fingertips. Shouto’s lips pressed here, soft and deliberate, leaving behind some invisible mark that’s now seared into him.
Shouto watches him with curiosity. “Well?”
“It’s richer,” he acknowledges, hoping his voice comes out steady. His gaze drifts down to Shouto’s lips, wet from the hot chocolate, and he forces it back up. “Minty.”
“I like the mint,” he agrees. “Do you want the rest? I wanna try yours.”
And that’s Katsuki speechless again. Helpless to do anything but watch with his mouth ajar as Shouto takes the mug from his slack fingers. The sight of Shouto drinking from the same place he had makes something weird and squirmy erupt in his chest, heat climbing up the back of his neck, his ears. It’s still not a date. It’s nothing.
Shouto lets him have the last mug, saying he doesn’t want to fill up before they go to the next place, which is probably better for Katsuki’s sanity. The flavor isn't bad, but he barely tastes it.
Friends drink from the same bottle as their friends all the time. It’s not weird. Katsuki’s the one making it weird.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Shouto says, cutting through his thoughts. “When I’m back, we can get going.”
He nods, still thinking about whether it’s weird. He’s seen Kaminari share a water bottle with his friends after training, Ashido with hers, and nobody had ever frozen in place like he is now, caught up in a taste he can almost perceive, phantom pressure on his lips. It’s not a kiss. A kiss would have been if Shouto leaned over and—
Then Shouto’s in front of him, wrapping his scarf around his neck again. “Let’s go.”
Katsuki peers around him, trying to catch the eye of the waitress. “We gotta pay, dumbass.”
“I already paid.”
“Huh?” He stops, frowning. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s my treat,” he says simply. “I invited you out.”
“You’re so annoying,” he grumbles, standing up and pushing his chair out. He’s almost about to make a rude comment about throwing around his daddy’s money when Shouto smiles, and a sick wave of guilt tugs his stomach sideways.
Every day, it gets harder to be a dick to Shouto. Last month, he’d been gearing up to make fun of the dumb knitting Shouto had constantly been doing around the common room—nice knitting, dork, all sarcastic, biting, slicing through something that had never hurt him—when Shouto quietly said that his mother taught him the first night they came home. They’d made tea, put on a fireplace ambience on the television, and knitted all night.
What was Katsuki supposed to say to that? How could he call Shouto a rich prick when the day after he mentioned that the stationary store near the school didn’t stock his favorite pencil brand, an entire box of them had appeared in front of his dorm room?
The simple truth of it is that the stubborn bastard has achieved anything he set his mind to, and when his goal was winning Katsuki’s friendship, Katsuki was powerless to resist. Defeated once again, like his humiliation at the Sports Festival, except instead of an unwanted medal, he had hot chocolate and fresh-smelling pencils.
He has to jog a little to catch up to Shouto. Him and his stupid, long legs. “Where’re we going now?”
“We need to take the bus again.” He pauses, cocking his head. “Well, we can walk, but it’ll take twenty minutes.”
“Tch. That’s nothing.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “Alright, then.”
Shouto’s a fast walker. Kind of like penguins, Katsuki thinks, who waddle around all lost in the ice and turn into arrows once they dive into the water. In conversations with their friends, Shouto looks like he’s in a haze, all blank expressions and misunderstandings, a veil concealing perceptiveness so sharp it’s unnerving. When he’s fighting, studying, training, he’s a machine.
“Why’d you have to research, anyway?” Katsuki asks finally. “Haven’t you ever been somewhere you liked the drinks?”
A shadow flickers over his face, twisting a knot into Katsuki’s stomach. “I wasn’t really allowed to have sugar. By the time I was old enough to go behind my old man’s back, I didn’t like it anymore.”
It feels like a rain cloud has opened over his head, dumping a bucket of water all over him. He’s never dwindled for long on the thought of what Endeavor had done beyond the moments where it’s impossible to ignore, where it’s blaringly obvious that Shouto’s trying to forgive him with all the grinding effort of carving a fucked-up statue into something passable, but that quiet admission pierces straight into his heart.
“You sure it’s not a guilt thing?” he says gruffly, because he knows Shouto, and he knows that for all his honesty, Shouto is rarely truthful with himself.
He considers it in that eyebrows-furrowed, thoughtful way he does everything, whether it’s an action plan or the question of whether he wants soba for dinner yet again. “Probably habit.”
“You liked the hot chocolate.”
The lines in his forehead ease. “I did. I liked sharing it with you.”
It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, all these matter-of-fact confessions, statements Shouto clearly sees as casual truths as if they don’t turn Katsuki’s heart into an acrobat in his clenched ribs. It shouldn’t have this big an impact on him, but for some awful, life-ruining reason, it does—each time, he’s left dizzy in the aftermath, face hot, a thread of pure, overwhelming energy crackling through him and turning his knees weak.
Then Shouto frowns. It’s unfair that this looks good on him, too. “You’re shivering.”
Katsuki hadn’t even realized it, but the wind has picked up. “I’m alright.”
Without hesitation, Shouto unwinds his scarf from around his neck and steps closer, a breath into the realm of Katsuki’s personal space, who’s stopped walking now. All instincts in him to fight off the coddling aren’t functioning, because he holds still, holding his breath, as Shouto wraps the scarf around his neck.
His fingers brush against the nape of Katsuki’s neck, and he resists a violent shiver, the effort of it making his limbs ache.
“Sorry. I know my hands are cold.”
His voice is a croak. “It’s fine. You—aren’t you gonna get cold?”
Shouto smiles, holding up his hand to show the young flame flickering there. Its heat spreads outwards, turning the space between them alight. “Don’t worry about me.”
I never do, he could say, but Shouto would see right through him, and the lie would be even more incriminating. Between all the bowls of homemade soba, the mapo tofu (reattempted painstakingly until Fuyumi’s recipe swam in his dreams, until it was finally good enough to let Shouto taste), the late-night conversations, sparring sessions after Shouto showed up to class with bloodshot eyes, Katsuki has let too many cards show.
The scarf’s soft, warm. Worse, it smells like Shouto. Fancy cream, the kind of scent that might be diffused through a spa, tempered with a hint of wood. It should feel like expensive cologne, but on him, it’s alive, so vivid it makes Katsuki’s heart throb when he catches it in the corridors. Just Shouto.
Katsuki exhales thin air. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he says, so goddamn genuine about it.
The next place is a shop. Entirely ordinary, small, tucked away between a hair salon and the entrance to an office building in a neighborhood with so many trees they cast pools of shadows over the pavement. When they enter, a bell jingles above the door, but the shop owner doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading.
Though the shop’s small, every single centimetre of space is crammed full of trinkets. A paperweight shaped like an anchor, worn notebooks, succulents, so many cat ornaments that Katsuki loses count the second he starts. Near the back, there are two tables, both of them piled high with documents and loose leaves of paper.
“Do they even sell drinks here?” Katsuki says dubiously.
“Yes. I’ve only had the tea, but I’m sure everything is good.” He pauses, then adds, “I hope.”
Though he’s already sweltering in his coat from the intense heating inside the shop, Katsuki can’t bring himself to take off the scarf, so he leaves it on as he peels off the coat while following Shouto to the back, trying not to hit any of the breakable objects with his flailing arms. Once the coat’s off, he drapes it over the back of the chair and sits down, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
“You’d better let me order for myself this time,” Katsuki says, but Shouto’s ignoring him, heading over to the shop owner.
He looks up at the approaching footsteps, and breaks out into a smile. “Todoroki-kun. It’s been a long time.” His gaze slides sideways, and Katsuki gives him an awkward grimace when they make eye contact. “You must be Bakugou-kun.”
That goddamn Sports Festival victory is gonna follow him around for the rest of his life.
He’s about to speak up when the owner adds, “Todoroki-kun speaks very highly of you.”
On the scale of friends-hanging-out to this-is-definitely-a-date, the fact that Shouto’s been going around talking about him to random people pushes this dangerously close to the other side. What the hell’s going on? Why’s this man greeting him like he’s meeting his nephew’s boyfriend?
He’s starting to feel clammy, hands so sweaty they’re ripe for detonation. “Nice shop.”
“I’ve had it for years,” the owner says cheerfully. “What would you like? Tea?”
Shouto looks over at Katsuki like he’s waiting, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s letting him order. In a place like this, there probably aren’t enough options to require a menu, so it’s not like there’s any point, but he goes ahead anyway. “Hot chocolate—if you have it. Please.”
“Of course. Two cups?”
I liked sharing it with you.
Damn it. “One cup’s fine. We’re gonna share.”
Shouto brightens, and Katsuki curses himself. When did he get so soft?
They both sit at the table, and Shouto casually moves the documents over to the other table. It’s clear he has come here a lot, and with all the cat-themed trinkets, it’s not hard to see why. Katsuki has never spent much time imagining what Shouto does when he’s not training, but thinking of him here, inspecting the ornaments, flicking through the books on traditional Japanese art, talking to the owner—it’s weirdly endearing.
It’s better than him sitting in his dorm all day, thinking about the war, about—well. Anyway. Katsuki doesn’t want to think about that now, either. Not on a day where he feels lighter than he has in a long time.
When the hot chocolate arrives, Shouto nudges it over to him, but Katsuki pushes it back. “You drink first.”
“Why? Your opinion’s the important one.”
“You’ve never had it before, either. I wanna see your reaction.”
Shouto looks touched. Another card slipped from his hands, another piece of Katsuki’s heart laid out for him.
His reaction is pretty mild, but most of them are; the subtle upturn of his eyebrows and the ease of his lips is enough. He swallows, and Katsuki watches the ripple of motion all the way down his throat, transfixed. When Shouto offers him the cup, he has to tear his gaze away, focusing on the cup so he doesn’t drop it.
It’s good. Light, tasty, with just the right amount of froth. It’s not as good as his favorite was, but it’s the closest he’s gotten so far.
“I like it,” he decides, taking another sip. When he pushes it across the table, Shouto tries to give it back, self-sacrificial idiot he is, but Katsuki blocks its path with his elbow. “Stop it. We’re sharing.”
“But you like it.”
“I like sharing it with you.”
Shouto buries his smile in the cup and Katsuki looks away, fixing his eyes on an ornament on the counter. It’s a small model of Mount Fuji, with tiny cherry blossom trees distributed around the base of the mountain, a village, and a lake featuring a miniscule boat.
Shouto twists around to see what he’s looking at, and his expression turns pondering. “Do you want it?”
“Nah, it just reminded me of this holiday ages ago. My dad took me to stay at this hotel near Kawaguchiko for a few days—it had a pretty awesome onsen, and we took a bunch of boat rides, walked around, ate a lot. The last day, we climbed the mountain.” He can’t help but grin at the memory. “Afterwards, he said we should have done it first, so we could spend the rest of the holiday relaxing. It wasn’t that hard, but it was tiring.”
“I’m sure it was,” Shouto says, amused. “It sounds like a fun holiday.”
“It was. Deku was so fucking jealous, until I made him go on a hike up a mountain pretty close to our neighborhood and he nearly passed out. My mom had to carry him the whole way down.”
Shouto laughs, and every cell in Katsuki’s body lights up with the sound of it.
He’s ready to argue over his right to pay at the counter, pushing aside Shouto and his fancy fucking engraved wallet, but the owner waves away his attempts with the assurance that Shouto reminds him of his son.
As they walk outside, Shouto stops, turning back. “I forgot my wallet—wait here, I’ll be out in a second.”
Katsuki squints, suspicious, but doesn’t follow him inside, leaning against a tree. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed, but between all their conversation in the café, the shop, and the walk here, the sun’s easing down from its peak. Still bright, but with the early winter sunsets, it’ll be fading into soft orange and red soon.
When the door creaks open and Shouto steps out, he’s carrying a small bag.
“What’s that?”
“It’s for you,” he says, holding it out to Katsuki.
He blinks. “Huh? Me?”
“There’s no one else here,” he says with the ghost of a smile.
Still stunned, Katsuki takes the bag and looks inside. It’s the Mount Fuji ornament, wrapped carefully in newspaper, though enough of it is peeking out that he can make out what it is. It lands like a punch in his chest.
“I—” He clears his throat, trying to breathe past this emotion that has no name but is taking up far too much space inside him. “Thanks, Todoroki.”
“You’re welcome.” Slowly, he ventures, “I’d like to go there one day, too.”
He cracks a smile. “You ever go hiking before?”
“No, but I’m sure I’ll be able to keep up.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
The final place is too far to walk to, so they get on the bus again. There are only single seats available, but the woman sitting in one of the two-seaters gets up and moves to the next row when she sees them, and it’s too late for an I don’t need to sit next to him, so Katsuki gives her a nod of acknowledgment. At least it means they can argue over the best season all the way to their destination, which Shouto refused to disclose.
Katsuki wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings, too engrossed in the argument and the way Shouto’s eyes glow when they catch the light, so it comes as a surprise when they arrive at the station near the beach.
“I wanted to save the best for last,” Shouto explains as they stroll down the boardwalk. On their right, there are shops, handmade clothing stalls, ice-cream parlors, while their left opens up to the ocean. “I’ve been here before and I liked it a lot.”
“You eat soba every day. I don’t trust your taste.”
He scoffs. “Not every day.”
When they reach a food truck, Shouto grabs his arm—when did that start happening?—to stop him from walking, and doesn’t let go, even as he strides up to the counter. A neon chilli pepper sits on top of the truck, blinking, emitting a red glow that makes Shouto look as if he’s blushing all over. It’s a cute look on him.
Shouto starts to say something to the cashier, and Katsuki’s about to interrupt him with a yell about how he wants to make his own goddamn order when he catches sight of the menu and stops in his tracks. Spicy hot chocolate, made fresh with chopped-up chocolate and chilli powder.
“Sorry for ordering for you again,” Shouto says with an apologetic look as he turns away from the cashier. “But when I came here, the spicy hot chocolate made me think of you. I wanted you to taste it.”
He swallows, hard. “Sure.”
The hot chocolate comes in a takeaway cup, and though there are some tables in front of the truck, Shouto leads them away, onto the sand, along the coast until they reach the wall of rocks breaking up waves. He side-eyes Shouto, but they’ve gotten this far, so he goes along with it, climbing over the rocks until they reach the end of the row, where a large, flat rock looks out onto the sea.
The sun’s setting now, vivid colours spilling over the sky, reflecting off the rippling surface of the ocean. Ships sail in the distance, tankers so far they look like toys, and sailboats that ride over the peaks of the cresting waves.
Shouto offers him the hot chocolate with a tilt of his head, and Katsuki accepts it, lifting it to take a sip.
It’s perfect. Rich, chocolatey, burning his throat as it goes down and settles hot in his stomach. He can’t resist another sip, then another, before he finally thrusts it at Shouto. “You gotta try this.”
He does, face awash in sunset hues. Soft, content. “It’s really good.” He looks back at Katsuki, and smiles, big and unabashed. “I was sure you’d like it. I’m glad you do. How does it compare to your favorite?”
Something in Katsuki’s heart splits, a rope holding a ship to harbor. The sheer hopefulness, earnestness, of it is too much to resist.
Leaning forward, he presses his lips to Shouto’s. He can feel the sun on his cheek, the warmth of Shouto’s mouth—so soft, resting easily against his. His hand when it settles, trembling, on Katsuki’s knee.
It wasn’t even open-mouthed, but Katsuki’s face is flaming all the same when he pulls back. “It’s better.”
Joy lights up Shouto’s face. “Really?”
He can’t help but give him a second kiss. Fleeting, but sparks flow through him like a firework show. “Yeah. Guess your bad excuse for a date paid off.”
“I was hoping it was one,” he admitted, like Katsuki hadn’t realized hours ago. Kind of.
He feels giddy with the elation of it. Of kissing Todoroki Shouto, of this feeling flooding him that’s springing out a thousand times stronger after being pushed down. “Next time, we can stay in and I’ll make the best hot chocolate you’ll ever have in your life.”
A third kiss, and Shouto’s cheeks go apple-red, even as he reaches for Katsuki’s hand, holding it so tenderly it aches. “I’m looking forward to it.”