The Hob smelled like smoke, coal dust, and desperation. You weren’t supposed to be here — not someone like you. Pretty dresses, delicate manners, a last name that meant something. But hunger didn’t care about status. And lately, neither did you.

Wyatt Callow spotted you long before you noticed him. It was hard not to. You stood out like a rose in an ash heap. But your shoulders were hunched, your steps slower than usual. And your hands shook when you counted your coins.

You thought no one saw.

But Wyatt always saw.

“That’s a weak trade,” his voice drawled behind you. Low, easy, teasing. “They’ll cheat you blind if you keep looking like that.”

You turned, startled. Wyatt was leaning against a post, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath his fringe. There was something calculating in his gaze — but something kind too. You couldn’t tell which made you nervous.

“I don’t need your help,” you muttered, tucking your sleeves over your too-thin wrists.

“Didn’t say you did.” He pushed off the post and stepped closer. “But no one else here’s gonna care if you starve. I might.”

It wasn’t pity. Wyatt Callow didn’t waste time pitying people. But maybe he recognized the quiet desperation in you — the kind you hid behind silk ribbons and a forced smile. The kind of hunger your mother called “discipline,” while servants cleared away untouched meals from your plate.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” he said finally, voice softer now. “They’re cruel. You’re just… tired.”

Your throat tightened. No one had ever said that before.

“I could make sure you eat,” he offered, casual like it cost him nothing, though you knew everything cost something in the Hob. “Not for free. Odds are I’ll need a favor someday.”

You hesitated. Trust wasn’t something you gave easily. But neither was kindness. And right now, kindness felt heavier in your hands than any price he might name.

“Deal,” you whispered.

Wyatt grinned, boyish and bright. “Good. Now let’s find you something better than moldy bread.”