The night air smells like cinnamon and cold. The park bustles with laughter and the bright, hazy shimmer of fairy lights wound around every tree and pole, blinking softly like slow heartbeats.
We keep walking—among the crowds—wandering through the decorated paths with no particular destination. Every so often, our shoulders brush, just barely, sending a warm spark down my spine. Noah doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he doesn't even notice. But I do.
We buy roasted chestnuts from a vendor with a cart that smells like caramel smoke. He wraps them in a thin paper pouch that warms my fingers, and I pass a few to Noah without asking.
We eat as we walk, chewing slowly, savoring the crunch and the heat. He hums in satisfaction. "Good pick, Knox," he says.
"You know I always good at picking things. Remember that Mellow is technically my pick?" I reply smugly.
Noah rolls his eyes but chuckles eventually. "You got a point there."
