[Seasonal Event] warm this weather out of my bones

Amalia A simple smile can change a day An understanding look can say I know exactly how you feel Rory's lack of enthusiasm is palpable, and for a moment Amalia falters, her smile dimming as a sea of fears rises like bile in her throat. Stupid, stupid, to assume he came to see her, that he wanted anything but a simple loaf of bread! Foolish to think one cheerful evening and a few passed smiles made them anything close to friends. The waif flushes hot but maintains her smile, stubbornly forcing down the fluttering panic that fills her breast, the cruel and cold uncertainty and anxiety which plagues her every step. You're making mountains, her mother would say, Living in the sky instead of beneath it. Amalia had never really understood this expression, but that had never been the point. Mothers don't say things to make sense, they say them to make an impression, and Amalia's had certainly done that. Rory's hesitation gives her a moment to regain her composure, or as close to it as she can get. She swallows the lump in her throat, smoothing her hands across her thighs - relaxed, or trying to create a facsimile of it, though the slender fingers twisting at her apron give the girl away. She does not expect the apples, especially now: stunned into silence, she can only stare, suddenly deeply entranced by the red and yellow fruit. Does this mean... what? the girl wonders, dark eyes darting between Rory and his offering, her head a cloud of overreaction and misconstrued intent. In a way they are all children, the orphans of the dome and the turmoil within, at a loss for how to function at more than an orbit from one another. But still, they try. She is trying. Her smile strengthens as she meets his eyes, a little of the cloud passed away from her face. "They look perfect, Rory." Amalia might have said more, asked about them or invited further, but at that moment the door swings open in interruption, and a woman walks in. Amalia blinks at the familiar stranger before recognition strikes her- of course! She had been there that night in the snow, singing softly in support, her hair as red as the luxere antlers which now glow beside the bakery door. "H-hello!" the baker greets, trying her best to channel her grandmother's cheery ease. "Welcome to the bakery. There's, um, bread in the oven, and were just about to make some apple cakes- ah, I think?" She turns to Rory as the question falls, an invitation in her voice.