You hadn't meant to stay out so late.

The market lights were dimming, most stalls already shuttered for the night. You told yourself you were fine. It wasn't that cold.

But Leslie noticed.

He always noticed, even when you thought you were being careful. He didn't say much when he found you near the edge of the sector, arms crossed, rubbing at your sleeves like it might warm you faster. Just walked up without a word, steps slow, even.

Then he was close. Closer than usual.

And before you could ask what he was doing, you felt the weight of his jacket around your shoulders.

It was warm. Carried the faintest scent of dust and something like metal and rain and you didn't know what to do with your hands, your breath, your heart.

You looked up, stunned.

Leslie's gaze met yours, unreadable for a beat. Then he looked away, as if suddenly unsure.

"You forget your coat again," he said quietly. Not a question. Just fact. His hand lingered at your shoulder like he might take the jacket back but didn't.

A few seconds passed in silence. Then he exhaled through his nose and gave the smallest shake of his head.

"You always do this," he muttered, more to himself than you.

You weren't sure if he meant the cold. Or staying late. Or making him look at you like that, like he was tired of fighting something he hadn't admitted out loud yet.

But he didn't take the jacket back.

He just stepped beside you and said, flat but soft, "Come on. I'll walk you."

And he did. All the way.

His hand brushed yours once, just once but he didn't pull away. Not this time.

And you knew. He noticed. He always had.