The market hums with its usual chaos; traders calling prices, the clash of coins, children weaving between stalls with sticky fingers and louder laughter. For once, there is no talk of curses or destinies, no weight of secrets pressing down. Just the press of bodies, the scent of figs and saffron, the ordinary rhythm of the day.

Asra drifts through it all, their steps unhurried where everyone else rushes. They bargain with a fruit seller in their lilting, coaxing way, sliding a coin across the counter that earns them a grin and a muttered complaint that they always get the better end of the deal. You are still frowning over the price of dried herbs when you feel the brush of their hand, light as a whisper, tucking something against your temple.

A flower, bright, soft-petaled, its colour striking even in the sun-soaked chaos, rests just behind your ear. Asra leans back, eyes crinkling with mischief as though they just cast a spell and are waiting to see your reaction. “I thought of you when I saw it,” They murmur, with the easy confidence of someone who’s already decided it suits you. Their smile lingers, glowing as warm as the late afternoon light spilling over the stalls.