The evening air was colder than expected, crisp winds sweeping harshly. You rubbed your hands together, exhaling softly as you watched the faint mist of your breath disappear into the night. The warmth of the setting sun had long since faded, leaving the stone beneath your feet uncomfortably cool.

Lam stood a few feet away, his back turned as he methodically sharpened his blade. He looked unaffected by the chill, his posture as steady and composed as ever. But you? You were freezing.

“When the hell did it get so cold?” you muttered, rubbing your arms.

Lam stopped mid-stroke, without a word, he reached up, unclasping his cloak with practiced ease. Before you could question him, he draped it over your shoulders in a single fluid motion.

Your breath hitched. His cloak was heavy, lined with thick fabric that had been warmed by his body. It carried the faintest trace of sandalwood and something undeniably Lam—subtle but grounding, like the scent of fresh steel after rain.

"You should've said something sooner," he said simply.

The night carried on, eventually, you realized Lam had fallen into a comfortable silence beside you. Only when he shifted did you notice his shivering—his shoulders slightly hunched, arms folded, breath visible in the cold.

"Lam," you called, voice laced with concern. "Are you cold?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not," you pressed, stepping closer. "Do you want your cloak back?"

Lam’s gaze flickered to you before he quickly looked away. "…Keep it."

You tilted your head, "Are you sure?"

"Just don’t lose it."

Instead of pushing further, you adjusted the cloak, pulling the fabric around him as well.

Lam stiffened at the unexpected gesture, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to protest. But after a moment, he let out a quiet exhale, allowing himself to lean the tiniest bit closer. And if you looked close enough, you could almost see the corner of his lips twitch upward.