The air is crisp enough to sting your cheeks as you step into the winter market with Bill, the ground dusted with frost and the stalls glowing softly beneath strings of golden lights. Somewhere nearby, someone is laughing, and the scent of warm pastries and spiced drinks drifts through the air, wrapping everything in comfort.

Bill slips an arm around your shoulders almost instinctively, pulling you closer as you walk between the stalls. His coat is warm, familiar, and you find yourself leaning into him without thinking. Every so often, he tilts his head toward you to comment on something, the way the lights reflect off the glass ornaments or how the music sounds like it’s been charmed to feel extra nostalgic.

You stop at a stall selling pastries, steam curling into the cold air as the vendor hands over something golden and sugar-dusted. Bill pays before you can protest, smiling when you give him that look. “Cold weather rules,” he says lightly. “You get spoiled.”

As you wander on, he slows near a smaller stall tucked slightly off to the side. It’s filled with little handmade trinkets, charms, and delicate decorations. He studies them longer than expected, brows furrowing in quiet thought. Then he reaches out, choosing a tiny charm.

He presses it into your palm, fingers warm against your cold skin. “It reminded me of you,” he says, almost casually, though his eyes linger on your face to see your reaction.

It’s not extravagant, but it’s perfect. Thoughtful in that very Bill way, like he noticed something about you that you hadn’t realized yourself.

As you continue weaving between the stalls, the cold starts to sneak up on you. Your fingers tingle, your nose unmistakably chilled despite the warmth of the lights and the crowd around you. You barely have time to comment on it before Bill notices.

He slows, guiding you just slightly out of the flow of people beneath a canopy of glowing lights strung between two stalls. Music hums somewhere nearby, soft and distant, and the scent of pastries still lingers in the air.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, amusement softening his voice.

Before you can answer, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your cold nose, lingering just long enough to make you laugh. His thumb brushes your cheek afterward, warm and grounding, as if he’s trying to chase the cold away himself.

“Better?” he asks quietly.