Snowflakes tap-dance on Barbecue Q's frosted windows, soft pitter-patter mixin' with the cozy sizzle of charcoal.
Makoto Uchiha and Hinata Hyūga are posted up side-by-side by the glass, palms still buzzin' from that sneaky hand-hold—like they're both pocketin' a tiny, low-key campfire.
Hinata steals a ninja-quick glance at Makoto, then ducks her head, fingers twistin' the hem of her kimono like it's a fidget spinner.
Snowflakes that hitched a ride on her hair are half-meltin' under the restaurant heat, drippin' onto his scarf—yep, the one he loaned her, still smellin' faintly like his cologne and straight-up him.
"Whatcha feelin'?" Makoto slides the menu her way. The grill's poppin'—beef tongue sizzlin', fat hittin' the coals, tiny gold flames jumpin' like mini fireworks.
Hinata's eyes skate across the options, then boomerang back. Voice softer than a marshmallow: "A-Anything's fine… I'm not that hungry."
GROOOOWL. Her stomach straight-up betrays her, loud as a Snapchat notification in a dead-silent room.
Hinata's face goes nuclear—ears included. She yanks the scarf up like a turtle shell, only her big, watery eyes peekin' out, pure bunny-in-headlights energy.
Scarf's still warm from Makoto, his scent sneakin' up her nose. Abort mission, heart rate critical.
Makoto's lips twitch—he fights the grin, orders a mountain of meat instead. He knows this girl can pack it away.
Hinata hears the order, eyes light up like she just hit the jackpot on a claw machine.
Embarrassment? Poof. Nose twitches, totally hooked on that smoky BBQ perfume.
Charcoal crackles. Makoto flips slices like a pro—raw red to caramelized amber, oil poppin', smoke curlin' up and blockin' out the blizzard like a force field.
He plates the fattest piece for her, snips it into bite-size chunks—oil splatters glint like rhinestones.
"T-Thank you…"
Hinata nibbles daintily, cheeks puffin' out like a chipmunk on a mission. Long lashes flutter, castin' tiny shadows. Quick peek at Makoto—head down, repeat.
Silence is comfy—just sizzles, clinkin' plates, snow whisperin' outside. Pure cozy ASMR.
Makoto's done in, like, five minutes. Sets chopsticks down, grabs a napkin.
Hinata slams hers too. Hands folded in lap, tiny voice: "I-I'm full."
Bull. Makoto arches a brow, ruffles her hair—palm heat sinkin' in. "No wastin' food. Finish it."
Hinata's cheeks flare again, lashes flutterin' like butterfly wings. "R-Really, I'm good…"
She usually eats less at home than a bird.
"Be a good girl."
He piles her plate higher.
Hinata stares at the meat tower, opens mouth—nothin'. Finally whispers "Thanks" and digs back in.
Makoto keeps the grill stocked, shuttlin' fresh cuts to her like a BBQ Uber.
Firelight paints his profile sharp—cheekbones poppin', that lazy half-smile lookin' extra soft.
Hinata's a bottomless pit—tiny frame, black-hole stomach. Plates vanish, tummy still flat as a board. Where's it goin'? Kamui dimension?
She clocks him starin'. Slows down, blush creepin'. Mosquito-whisper: "C-Could you… not stare?"
Face now tomato emoji. Buries it in the plate.
Then peeks up. Eyes lock. She suddenly remembers somethin'—slams lids shut, lashes tremblin' like she's waitin' for a jumpscare.
"N-No… don't look here…"
Voice wobbly, a lil' self-conscious. "My eyes… they're ugly."
In Hyūga land, Byakugan = flex. In her head? Not so much.
Makoto watches those shakin' lashes. "Your eyes are gorgeous."
Hinata's tremble-game levels up.
"Just some people got no taste," he adds.
She cracks one eye. Warm light on his face—dead-serious, soft as the grill's glow. Hits her chest like a cozy blanket.
Slowly opens both. Falls into his smilin' gaze—heart does a lil' boop, sweet like stolen candy.
Soft "Mm," then back to eatin'. This time her lips sneak upward, meat tastin' extra honey-glazed.
Outside, snow's buryin' Konoha in cotton. Inside? Warmth's creepin' up Hinata's heart like vines—loose, fluffy, with that first-hit-of-spring vibe.
Makoto catches her shy side-eyes, lashes flutterin' like spooked moths. Can't fight the grin.
BBQ glow and meat haze everywhere—BAM. Door flies open, blizzard rushin' in.
Hiashi Hyūga in the doorway, black kimono dusted white, knuckles ghost-white, eyes a lil' red at the rims—pure dad-panic in those pale pupils.
Alleyway: Hizashi leans on the wall, twin vibes but sharper jaw. Worry drains from his face watchin' the scene.
Neji beside him, kid-face already cuttin' like future edgelord, lips tight with big-bro tension.
"Father…"
Hinata spots Hiashi. Shoulders snap rigid again, tiny fist clutchin' Makoto's scarf like a lifeline. Voice back to cotton-candy soft.