Cadeon inclines his head slightly, and I could swear there's amusement in his eyes.
We move through the market, collecting supplies. Cadeon carries the packages without being asked, and I pretend not to notice the way people give us a wide berth. Some stare openly.Others whisper behind their hands. But no one approaches, and no one is actively hostile.
Small victories.
We're passing a stall selling evergreen wreaths when a street musician strikes up a tune on his fiddle. It's something old and cheerful, a Midwinter song I remember from childhood. My mother used to hum it while she cooked.
I find myself humming along, swaying slightly to the rhythm as I examine a particularly fine wreath.
When I glance back at Cadeon, he's staring at me.
Not scanning the crowd. Not watching for threats. Just... looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Something between confusion and wonder, like he's seeing something unexpected.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He blinks, and the look vanishes. "Nothing. You were humming."
"The song. My mother used to..." I stop, because his expression has shuttered completely. "Sorry. We should keep moving."
"No." He steps closer, and his voice is quieter now. "Don't apologize. It was... nice. To hear."
"Oh." I don't know what to do with that, so I just nod and turn back to the wreaths, very aware that he's still watching me.
We finish our shopping in comfortable silence, and by the time we leave the market, Cadeon is loaded down with packages and I'm carrying a wreath that's definitely too large for any reasonable door.
"This is going to look ridiculous," I inform him.
"Undoubtedly."
"But it's festive."
"If you say so, Mistress... Iris."
He still stumbles over my name sometimes, like using it is a small rebellion.
The walk back to the cottage is quieter, the forest path muffling the market noise. Snow crunches under our feet, and the packages crinkle with each step.
"Thank you, for coming with me. I know crowds are... difficult."
"It's my purpose. Protection."
"Maybe. But you also carried all the packages and didn't complain once about my terrible shopping decisions."
"The wreath was a terrible shopping decision."
"See? You're learning." I grin at him over my shoulder. "Next time I'll trust your judgment on wreaths."
"There will be a next time?"
"Of course. This is just the first market trip. There will be many more terrible shopping decisions in our future."
Something flickers across his face: surprise, maybe, or something softer. Like the idea of a future with more shopping trips is novel. Pleasant, even.
"Then I'll endeavor to prevent the worst of them," he says, so seriously that I laugh.
"Good luck with that."
Back at the cottage, I take over the kitchen with the focused intensity of someone who has no idea what they're doing but refuses to admit it.
