The cemetery was still, only the crunch of gravel under your boots breaking the silence. Lanterns flickered faintly against the mist, your friend walking just ahead, pointing out half-hidden carvings and graves nearly swallowed by moss. You lingered, gaze catching on the cliffside view, the world falling away into shadows and sea spray below.

When it came time to climb down from a raised stone platform, the drop wasn’t much, but enough to make your breath hitch. You hesitated.

Flins appeared at your side—silent as ever. He extended his hand toward you, palm open, steady, patient. His eyes, unreadable in the dim light, told you he wouldn’t rush you.

You took a breath, reached out—and as you moved, your scarf slipped from your shoulders, fluttering to the ground. Before he could bend to catch it, you tightened your grip on his hand, stepped down quickly, and released him almost too fast. Your face burned hot, and you hurried ahead, pretending nothing happened.

But then—without a sound—he was suddenly there. Behind you. Close. The warmth of his presence curled around your shoulders before you even turned.

A gentle hand rested against your arm, halting your steps. He didn’t pull you to face him. Instead, with practiced, unhurried movements, he lifted your scarf. You felt the soft brush of fabric, the careful sweep as he draped it back around your neck. His fingers lingered just briefly as he tied it into place—firm, secure, almost protective.

The world was hushed. Your friend’s voice in the distance faded, the sea itself seemed to hold its breath.

Flins didn’t say a word. He simply let his hand drop, stepping back into the shadows, his gaze unreadable. But the lingering warmth at your neck told you enough.