Hazrael wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked down the familiar road, his hands gripping the straps of his delivery bag. The morning air was crisp, yet his chest felt unbearably heavy.

Hazrael’s steps slowed as he spotted you on the busy street corner, basket in hand, calling out softly to passersby. "Fresh buns! Would you like to buy some?" Your voice was steady, but he could see the exhaustion in your eyes.

His chest tightened.

Without thinking, he crossed the street toward you. "You’re out here again," he murmured, his voice low with concern.

His eyes fixed on the basket in your arms. "You didn’t have to do this today."

You smiled—tired, but still warm. "We need the money, don’t we?"

Hazrael exhaled sharply, guilt gnawing at him. He reached for the basket, fingers brushing against yours. "Let me take it. You should rest."