"You seem rather cold, dear one.." he says, softly, before wrapping the other up in a jumper of his, and handing over a cup of tea. What he does best...
Itâs unexpected, like rain on la Lune (after the atmosphere bled away (but thatâs another story)). A level of emotion and care on a level Rahmielen hadnât experienced in far longer than needed tugged at metaphorical heart.  Warmth. Comfort. Little tendrils of steam - heated water, how simple a pleasure - struggled to find the path of least resistance toward a dull sky.
He looked down at the sleeves and a careful smile began to tug at the corner of a mouth once so practiced. The sleeves were long and uneven on him, despite the noticeable size difference between the two. I guess Emmanuelâs knack for a sweater that fits perfectly is only self-contained, he mused.
