The storm continues to rage beyond your temporary shelter — the only source of warmth comes from the Pyro-wielding retainer seated by your side.

Thoma’s hair is plastered to his scalp, after the pair of you had gotten caught in a sudden flash-storm, yet his expression is warm as he glances at you.

Wet tendrils of gold frame his handsome face, his coat is draped over your shivering frame.

“How are you holding up?” Thoma asks gently, nudging you in the side.