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Sometime during their time at the tavern, the rain had passed over. The sky was clear, wisps of clouds and silver stars dotting the night. The river, a tranquil expanse of water, still and without a ripple. At one point, Alhaitham copied Cyno’s sitting position, and their fingertips touched; and another, their hands intertwined.
For a long time they sat side by side with few words exchanged, comfortable in the sound of their hushed breath, the scent of rain-soaked earth lingering in the air, the warmth they shared.
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(Or, Alhaitham, Cyno, and the time they spent before Cyno set off for Mondstadt.)
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