The baskets were lighter by the time dusk settled, their contents given away with careful hands and quieter smiles. Zair adjusted his gloves as the last families dispersed, the street thinning to a hush that felt almost private. He found you beside the lamppost, cloak drawn close, breath faint in the cooling air.

“If you will allow it,” he said, already turning with you toward the road, “I should see you home.” It was framed as courtesy, though the thought of leaving you to the dark had unsettled him all afternoon.

He noticed, with a crease of concern he did not voice at first, how thin your shawl was against the wind that threaded the stones. “Winter has grown impatient this year,” he remarked gently. “You would do well to add another layer. Cold is most treacherous when it arrives politely.”

The corner of his mouth softened, then stilled. A pause followed—measured, deliberate. “I have not seen you at church of late,” he added, eyes forward, tone careful to avoid reproach. “I hope it is circumstance rather than illness.”

He glanced to you then, earnest and composed. “Your presence is… noticed,” he said, correcting himself with a quiet breath. “Your absence, likewise.”

The words lingered between you, warm despite the air. He folded his hands, posture respectful. “Should you require anything—guidance, provisions, or simply an escort—my duties permit me to be available.”