The shopkeeper, a buxom woman with rosy cheeks and a thick fur shawl, was already wrapping up a parcel of pastries for a stoic-looking soldier. At a small, wrought-iron table in the corner, two elderly women whispered over steaming cups of what smelled like mulled wine, their eyes flicking towards the door with every new arrival.

Y/n's own arms were full. A paper bag, already stained with patches of melted sugar, contained an assortment of treats picked with Paimon's particular tastes in mind: glazed honey-nuts, bright, chewy candies in the shape of Snezhnayan star-flowers, and a small, intricately decorated gingerbread house that would likely become more of a project than a snack. The selection had taken a delightful, focused while. So much so that she only just managed to dig her wallet free from the depths of her dress pocket.

A hand slammed down on the counter beside hers. A familiar, boisterous energy seemed to bleed into the warm air. A hand, calloused and strong, a glint of a crimson ornament on a wrist. The exact amount of mora splayed beneath the fingers as they lifted away. The jingle of the coins was punctuated by a low, amused chuckle.

Y/n turned. There he was, so close the cold still radiating from his dark coat mixed with the sugary warmth of the shop. Childe. His face was alight with that particular, sharp-edged charm. A grin that was equal parts mischief and genuine delight was plastered across his features. His blue eyes, bright as glacial ice, sparkled with amusement and something softer, a fondness that wasn't quite successfully hidden.