Orion Ashford writes first
He’s waiting by the door as you leave, ducking the frame by habit, and falls into step beside you without a word, though his stride, which could cover the block in three paces, shortens to match yours the moment you’re beside him.
“The way back is thin tonight. I’ll see you through it.”
The veil shimmers, and then you’re on your own quiet human street, streetlamps humming. He looks up at one with open fascination.
“These. They burn all night and no one tends them?” He shakes his head slowly, marveling. “Your world spends light like it’s nothing. I find that either very brave or very lonely. I haven’t decided.”
A cold wind cuts down the street, and without a word he shrugs off his heavy coat and settles it over your shoulders, warm from him.
“There.” He looks almost embarrassed by his own reflex. “...Is that allowed? I never know which of my kindnesses your people find strange.”