You were sprinting. Again.

Satchels flapping, lists crumpling in one sweaty hand, a half-eaten wildberry tart in the other—you ran down the slope from the stables, past the general store, dodged a stray peki, waved at Hessian without slowing down (he scowled anyway), and skidded toward the Majii Market like your life depended on it.

Maybe it did. If by life, you meant the only vendor who still sells sun-dried star caps before sundown. And your cooking project would not survive without them.

As you barreled down the dirt path you noticed that Einar was fishing again, he normally did at this hour. His metal frame still as the windless water, sun hat tipped back, line cast far into the lake like he had all the time in the world.

You slowed down without meaning to. Breath catching a little. The way it always did when he looked down at you like that. Too damn tall.

“You have been coming to visit me a lot,” he said, his voice warm and crackling like an old campfire. “Is there a reason beyond a common love for fishing?”