[SE] tending the flame

Damien

Deepfrost here wasn’t Halo’s Deepfrost. The cold bit, sure, but not like a wolf at the throat—more like a dog nipping at your ankles. Damien wore half the layers he’d need back home. A wool sweater over a thick shirt, and even that felt close to overkill as he ate up the shoreline in long strides. Aria bounded at his heel, paws kicking up sand in sprays, bright-eyed, tail flicking like a banner.

It had been a while since he’d walked this way. Theea’s place lived in fragments in his head: the roll of the waves, the tilt of the porch, the memory of sweat and sawdust from the day they’d manhandled that bastard couch through the door. He wandered more than once, jaw set as he squinted at palms and rocks, until the silhouette finally pulled itself out of the coast. The porch was still standing, windows still looking new. That was a good sign, at least. But the couch—outside now—slumped against a palm tree like it had been exiled, waiting for its last rites in fire.

Damien squinted at it, mouth tugging into a half-frown. “Thought you’d have burned the damned thing by now,” he muttered, mostly to Aria. The cub chirruped, as if she agreed, before darting ahead and circling back.

In his hand, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine, he carried a housewarming gift. Something practical, something she’d use. No flourishes, no preening—just thought given shape. He shifted the package once in his palm, testing its weight like a habit, then mounted the porch.

At the door, he rapped twice, firm and even. A pause. Then a low whistle slid out of him, rising and falling in a tune that sounded suspiciously like a wordless 'yoo-hoo.' And he waited to see if there would be an answer.

Someone else was a little less patient, though. Aria found purchase with her overly large forepaws on a front-facing windowsill and peered inside like the curious, nosy little cat she was. Her loud, probing mrrow was muffled against the glass.

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again

Theea

The fire pops, a little too hot for Torchline standards, but I’m curled up on my heap of pillows like a queen on a lopsided throne. My nose is redder than a longheat strawberry, my head is pounding like a drumline gone rogue, but obviously, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Just… allergies. Brutal ones.

I sniff hard, then sneeze into the depths of a tissue that joins the crumpled mountain already filling the trash bucket. My fingertips are blackened with charcoal, smudges creeping up my wrist and—considering how I keep nodding off with my head in my hand—probably on my face. My sketch lies half-finished on my lap, the shape of hulking big cat coming to life out of the streaks and smudges of charcoal. One log remains by the fire, the last soldier before I’d have to stagger outside and replenish the stockpile. I try not to think about it.

The knock cuts through the crackle, followed by a whistle that makes my brows lift. I know that whistle. My head swivels, sluggish but sharp enough to catch sight of an enormous paw pressed against the window. Aria’s round face squashes against the glass, fogging it with her muffled mrrow. My grin is a nice change of pace.

The sketch is abandoned as I shove myself upright, wobbling across the warm room, through the kitchen, and to the door. I throw it open with all the ceremony of a gracious hostess—only to promptly almost sneeze in Damien’s face. I twist away at the last second, burying my face in my oversized sweater sleeve.

“Sorry—sorry, sorry, sorry,” I sniff, wiping at my nose and trying to recover my dignity. My voice is hoarse but bright when I look up at him, relief and excitement coloring it. “You’re here! Come in, both of you.”

The house is still sparse, but signs of effort linger—new odds and ends in corners, a few pieces that don’t quite match but speak of someone trying. I sweep an apologetic hand toward the mess of pillows, tissue mountain and all.

“Ignore the disaster zone. Allergies have been kicking my ass.”

I grin despite the redness of my nose, stepping aside so he and Aria can cross into the over-warmed cocoon of the little beach house.

delusional optimism is the only way out

Damien

Damien waited on the porch with the same patience he’d give a stuck snare—motionless but keyed up, eyes narrowing at the stretch of shoreline as if he expected the house itself to shift a few feet to the left. Aria’s paws scrabbled against the glass, her muffled mrrow filling the air like a knock of her own. He almost smirked at her impatience, almost whistled again just to needle her, but then the lock rattled and the door cracked wide.

He’d been ready with a dry remark about couches and bonfires, maybe even a lopsided smile. But the words stuck fast and his brows knitted together instead.

Theea filled the doorway like she’d run through a gauntlet—red-nosed, eyes dulled, sweater swallowing her frame. She snapped into a sneeze so violent he leaned back half a step, not out of disgust but instinct, as though bracing against a blow. She apologized in a rush, all bright voice and ragged edges, and something in him gave a small twist.

“Allergies,” she said.

He grunted low in his throat, skepticism thick as tar. His gaze did a slow sweep, cataloguing everything: the black smudges on her fingers, the trash bucket mountain of crumpled tissues, the log still fighting in the fire. Then his eyes came back to her, lingering on the flush across her cheeks, the faint glassiness to her stare.

“You don’t get allergies in Deepfrost,” he said flatly, factual as ever. “Not like that.”

Aria slipped past his leg, trotting inside as though the place already belonged to her. Damien followed more slowly, ducking his head as he crossed the threshold, the gift still balanced in his hand. The heat hit him first—thicker than the coastal air outside, over-stoked for Torchline—and then the sight of her little nest: pillows and blankets, the lived-in sprawl of someone who hadn’t left the hearth in a day or two.

He set the package down on a side table without ceremony, stripping his sweater as he did. The air here was warmer, thick with fire-heat, and it left him standing in just a tan-colored short-sleeved shirt. For once, there was no barrier of wool or leather between him and the world. The shirt clung in places, pulling over the breadth of his shoulders, the heavy muscle corded down his arms. His skin was scattered with old nicks and scars, the map of a man who’d worked blades and axes longer than most had lived in comfort. Bare by his standards, but more than enough for this climate.

“You’ve been running yourself down.” His voice was level, but there was no mistaking the line of worry beneath it. He crouched by the fireplace, picked up the lone log waiting for its turn, and set it into the coals like he’d been doing it for her all along. Sparks spat up, hungry and bright, before settling into steady flame. 

"Would've come sooner if I knew you were sick." His eyes caught hers as he looked over his shoulder, gaze steady and unyielding. "Why didn't you tell me?"

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again

Theea

Doesn’t matter how I feel—my smile shows up the second Aria prances through the door like she owns the place, and I let her be. There’s nothing in here she can break, unless she somehow figures out how to ignite a pillow fort, and honestly? I’d probably thank her for sparing me the mountain of tissues.

I sniff, then frown at Damien, squaring my shoulders against the weight of his stare. “Maybe not normally,” I mutter, stubborn as a mule, “but I’ve been stirring up all kinds of dust with cleaning and rearranging. That’s all.”

Then he peels off his sweater to deposit on my table with a parcel, and my heart does a ridiculous little leap at the simple act, at his comfortable, modest exposure. It’s absurd, the way it hits me—silly and decidedly girlish—and I immediately busy myself scooping up my overflowing trash bucket. The tissues rustle accusingly as I march back into the kitchen to dump into the bigger bin, pretending I’m not watching him out of the corner of my eye. He sets the last log with such ease it looks like the fire just listens to him, and I don’t miss the quiet care in the act.

When he glances back, his eyes catch mine, sharp and steady, leaving no room to wriggle or fib. I do it anyway. “I really think I’m fine,” I insist, even as a shiver sneaks down my spine now that I’ve strayed from the fire. I huddle deeper into my sweater and drift closer to him and the stove.

“And how exactly was I supposed to tell you?” I add, tone tipping playful as I try to dodge his concern. “I’ve never been to your place. Don’t know where to send the letter.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and I know it, so I tack on with a crooked grin, “Besides… didn’t think you needed to be worrying yourself over me being… allergies.”

delusional optimism is the only way out

Damien

Damien caught her smiling at Aria, and it landed sharp in his chest. Sick as a dog, sweater swallowing her whole, voice rasped thin—and still she could summon that light. He had no business thinking it, not here, not now, but the thought cut through anyway: she was beautiful. The realization startled him, left a beat of silence where words should have been. He turned back to the fire before it could show on his face, as if the flame might burn the treachery out of him.

Allergies, she pressed on, chin lifted like she could stare him down. He almost smiled at that too, his lips twitching as he bit it back. Stubbornness was survival where he came from. She wore it with the same natural ease she wore a grin. "Uh-huh, sure," he gave her a knowing look, but not seeing any point in arguing over it, he let it slide.

While she busied herself hauling the bucket of tissues away, his gaze snagged on the paper she’d left behind. A sketch, smudged with the charcoal still staining her fingers. He picked it up carefully, like it might tear if he breathed too hard on it. The shape was rough but unmistakable: a big cat, muscles caught in motion, alive in every shadow and streak. He studied it longer than he meant to, and the firelight dragged him back to the cave, to the night her blood and the cub’s fur had both been damp against his hands. To the long hours they’d spent tracking another one through snow and silence.

By the time she drifted back closer, sweater tugged tight against a shiver, he set the drawing down with care. She tilted her chin at him, teasing, asking how she was supposed to tell him. He met her grin with a steady look, one brow ticking up as if to concede the point. She was right. Word would’ve never made it across the tundra in time.

But then she said he didn’t need to worry about her, and something in him hardened. He leaned back on his heels, still crouched by the fire, and let the quiet stretch a moment before he answered. “That part,” he said finally, voice low, “you’re wrong about.” His gaze flicked to hers, dark as night and just as unwavering. “If you think I’m not gonna worry anyways, you don’t know me half as well as you think.”

He pushed up to his feet, brushing ash off his palms. “Sit. Rest. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. More firewood, cleaning..” He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the little throne of pillows by the stove. “Last thing you should be doing is running yourself into the ground trying to prove you’re fine.”

Aria, who had sprawled across the pillows at some point, gave a loud, squeaky mrrow, as if to second the order. Damien huffed through his nose, but his eyes came back to Theea with the same steady line of care she’d seen all along. "When's the last time you ate?"

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again

Theea

I pause when I catch him with my drawing in his hands. Not just glancing at it—his face has that faraway focus like it’s tugged him somewhere else entirely. I study him while he studies my lines, wondering what in the world could be in his head. But before I can get any kind of read, he’s setting it down gentle as glass, slipping it right out of my reach.

My head tips at his words—you’re wrong—eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. Still, the corner of my mouth betrays me with a fleeting smile as I step closer. “Worrywart,” I murmur, conceding, right before I sneeze into my elbow like the universe decided to punctuate it for me. My body is screaming the truth—fever, congestion, all of it—but I don’t want to be sick. So I keep pretending. Allergies. Has to be.

But gods, it’s been a lonely couple days, stuck in here with nothing but charcoal and the sound of my own sneezing. The sigh that slips out is heavier than I mean it to be as I finally give in, lowering myself beside Aria. I bury my fingers in the thick warmth of the snow leopard's pelt, scritching at her neck. “I’m not letting you clean my house,” I warn, though softer than I mean to. “But… that was the last log I had inside.”

When he asks when I last ate, my brow furrows. I purse my lips, thinking, and finally say, “Bread and tea. Early this morning.” His stare catches me right then—warm and unflinching, like it always is, intense and carrying a vast depth of thought and feeling he makes such an effort to keep to himself, but never does with me. It never feels like he’s trying to impress me, never forced. He just is, and somehow, as always, that makes it matter so much more. It catches right in my chest, and I have to look away, cheeks warming despite the chill running through me.

I clear my throat, trying to make it casual. “What kind of work brought you all the way to Torchline, then? Something had to pull you out of those snowdrifts and into the sand dunes.”

delusional optimism is the only way out

Damien

Damien crossed his arms when she warned him off cleaning, smirking, one brow ticking upward like he’d just been issued a challenge. He didn’t bother answering out loud. His eyes flicked to the firebox, to the single log burning down slow, and then to the bare floor beside it. She wasn’t wrong—she was out. He gave the stove a final, measuring glance and filed it away. Before he left, there’d be wood enough stacked inside to last her days. She didn’t need to know that yet.

“Bread and tea,” she admitted, and the way her mouth pinched around it made him watch her a little longer than he should have. Her lips pursed, her eyes darted, her cheeks flushed a little deeper. Fever, he thought at first, a hot flash maybe—but it lingered even after she looked away. His jaw tightened, puzzled, but he didn’t push. Instead he let his voice drop steady, practical. “I’m not much of a chef, but I can make a good soup out of damn near anything. And if you want more tea...” He let the offer hang like a question, but he'd probably just do it anyway. A big pot of soup could feed one person for a few days. She wouldn't have to cook or chop wood, not at least until she recovered.

With that, he turned and made for the kitchen, sweeping open a cupboard with the air of a man already committed. He scanned jars and shelves, cataloguing her larder with the same precision he’d give a snare line. There’d be a pot somewhere. He’d make do. He always did.

Her question carried over, and he half-turned, catching sight of her curled up with Aria sprawled across her lap like she belonged there. The cub purred loud enough to rattle the pillows, pressing her head into Theea’s sweater. The sight tugged at him—softened something he didn’t want softened—and he forced his mouth into something closer to neutral before it could break into a smile.

“I thought you’d have had your bonfire by now,” he said, voice even, though the words snagged a little rougher in his throat. He reached for the parcel he’d set aside earlier, crossing back to her. “So I came to check on you. Good thing I did.”

He set the package in her lap, gentler than he usually was. “Brought you this. In case I missed your party.” His eyes lingered on hers, steady, as though to drive home the point that he hadn’t missed it—and maybe wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had.

If she opened it, she’d find the soft rabbit fur blanket folded clean and tight, the edges even, the hide treated with patient hands. Nestled on top, the smaller leather pouch with his whittlings: foxes carved from pale wood, each one caught in some motion of their kind—leaping, running, sitting with clever faces turned up like they knew more than they let on. The fox reminded him of her, how she was clever and playful. There was no card, no flourish. Just something of him offered in the only way he knew how.

“I hope you like them,” he said finally, low. And then, quieter still, “Figured you might.”

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again

Theea

Soup. He wants to make me soup? I’m sick as a dog, and he’s actually sticking around? I look back at him, and before I can even form an answer, he’s already in the kitchen, perusing my cupboards like he owns the place.

I start to protest, pushing myself up, but then Aria flops down across my lap like she’s been waiting for this moment, a warm, solid weight that rumbles with a purr as she nuzzles into my sweater. Conspiring with him, clearly.

I can’t help but smile down at her. “You’re working against my pride, little girl,” I murmur, rubbing behind her ears anyway, sniffing as I do.

When his voice carries back—something about expecting the bonfire—my chest gives a sudden, sharp clench. He’d come here just to check on me. No reason but that. I remember sparring with him, the deal we struck. Best friends. And it hits me that this—this care, this showing up—is exactly what best friends do. Warmth flickers through me, chasing out the chill I’ve been living in for days.

I track him as he comes closer, a parcel in his hands, and he sets it down beside Aria in my lap. My brows knit, eyes flicking up to his. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” I say softly. He couldn’t know—there’s no way he could know—but the coincidence of it being today, of all days, feels uncanny.

My fingers hook into the paper and tear it away. Coarse brown parchment gives way to something impossibly soft. I pull free the rabbit fur blanket, eyes lighting up, lips curving with a smile. “Damien…” I press it against my cheek, soaking in the warmth that will carry me through Deepfrost.

A small leather pouch tumbles loose, falling into my lap. I glance up, then untie it, and my lips part in a quiet, delighted breath as I pull free the first fox. Then another. Then all of them, small and perfect in my palm, caught mid-motion as though they’d spring to life if I set them down.

“I love them,” I breathe, voice low and earnest.

I shift Aria gently aside, setting the foxes atop the blanket so I can rise, and before I think better of it I step into him, wrapping my arms around his middle. My head finds his chest naturally, and I hug him close.

“Thank you. It’s like you knew.”

I hold him longer than I mean to, but when I finally tilt my face up, it’s a mistake. All at once, my heart stumbles, my cheeks flush, and my stomach flips traitorously. I flash him a quick, too-bright smile and step back, looking down at the blanket and foxes with another loud sniffle, rubbing my nose like that explains everything. As if on cue, I have to cover another sneeze. Attractive.

Gathering the foxes again, I carry them to the stained glass window and line them carefully along the sill, each one caught in its own clever motion.

“I’m twenty now,” I say at last, glancing over my shoulder with a small smile. “It’s like a birthday gift.”

delusional optimism is the only way out

Damien

Damien hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until she pulled the blanket out like it was spun gold instead of rabbit hide. Something loosened in his chest—something he didn’t want to admit had been wound tight ever since he’d tied the last knot in the twine. Watching her press the fur to her cheek, watching her light up, it hit harder than he’d expected. A man like him had no business waiting for a verdict like it mattered, but gods, it did.

And then the foxes. One after another in her hands, the little things suddenly looked like more than scraps of wood he’d whittled by firelight. He found himself braced against the weight of her reaction, jaw locked, eyes tracking every shift in her expression. When she breathed that she loved them, his throat went dry.

He hadn’t been ready for her to get up, hadn’t been ready for her to close the space. But then she was against him, arms wrapped around his middle, her head tucked under his chin like it belonged there. His body went stiff for a beat, shock crackling through him like frost breaking on a windowpane. Then his arms came down heavy and careful around her, one braced at her back, the other settling low at her side. He held her like he might break her if he wasn’t careful, even as something in him wanted to hold on too tight.

It was too long, too much, and when she finally looked up at him, the heat in her cheeks and the stumble in her smile hit him like a hammer. His pulse jumped. He didn’t even know what he was about to say before she pulled away, and maybe that was for the best.

He let her go. His hands dropped back to his sides like they’d never moved. He cleared his throat, glanced at the foxes, and told himself to focus on that instead.

“Birthday?” he said finally, voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “I didn’t know.” Guilt flared sharp and stupid in his gut—he should’ve known, should’ve asked, should’ve done better. But he forced a short shake of his head, tried to bury it under plain truth. “Wasn’t meant as that. Just… something to keep you warm. Something to make you smile.”

He stepped over and leaned a shoulder against the frame of her window, arms crossing again out of habit, watching her line the foxes up like they belonged there. “Guess I’ll call it luck, then. Right place, right time.”

And softer, almost under his breath: “Glad I came when I did.”

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again

Theea

I look up at him with a shine in my eye, even as I sniffle and rub at the sore tip of my nose. “Well, it worked,” I tell him with sincerity. “It’s made me smile for the first time in what feels like days.”

My gaze drifts to Aria, sprawled like a queen among my pillows, purring hard enough to rattle the floorboards. "Maybe I should think about a pet—someone soft and nosy to keep me company when I’m cooped up like this, pretending I’m not miserable."

My smile thins. I look back at the foxes gleaming in the firelight, bundle my sweater tighter around myself against a shiver I pretend not to notice. “I just still haven’t gotten used to living alone,” I admit, quieter. “Thought I would by now. It’s been since last Flowerbirth since I struck out.”

I give a soft, barely-there sigh, thumb brushing over the fabric at my sleeves. “I’ve been trying to figure it out." My voice is probably too quiet, but the words feel just heavy enough that I don't want to lift them. "But something just keeps feeling… empty, somewhere.” My eyes drop. “Dad was worried about me not living with Mom anymore. I keep wondering if I should just give up and move back in.”

The thought makes my chest twist. "But I love my little house. I love being able to say I’m independent. I just… suck at being alone."

The words hang too heavy, and I suddenly realize how much I’ve said. I clamp my mouth shut, glance over at him with a sheepish half-shrug. “Sorry. Rambling.” Again.

delusional optimism is the only way out

Damien

He didn’t say anything right away. He just watched her, arms still folded, the fire throwing long, restless light across her face. The honesty in what she said hit him harder than any cough or sneeze could have. He knew that kind of loneliness — the kind that lingered even when you had a roof and warmth and something to do with your hands.

Aria’s purr filled the space between them, a steady yet soft rumble, and Damien let it fill the silence a few seconds longer before he finally spoke.

“Doesn’t sound like rambling to me,” he said quietly. “Sounds like you’ve been chewing on that for a while.”

He pushed away from the window frame, stepping closer to the fire. The heat hit him across the front, warm enough to pull the stiffness from his jaw. “Truth is, bein’ alone’s a lot harder than people think. Everyone talks about independence like it’s some kind of prize, but they don’t tell you how damn loud the quiet gets once you’ve got it.” His tone stayed matter-of-fact, like he was talking about weather or timber yields, but something under it carried weight.

He crouched by the stove again, nudging one of the embers with the poker more to have something to do with his hands than any real need. “Your dad’s probably just scared to see you sick or hurting. Parents are like that, from what I hear.” He glanced back over his shoulder, mouth pulling into a faint, wry line. “But you’ve built a good life here. You’ve got work, your place, a fire that stays lit. That’s more than most ever manage.”

He set the poker aside, straightened, and faced her fully. “You don’t suck at being alone, Theea. You just don’t like it. There’s a difference.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward into the ghost of a smile. “And that’s not a weakness. Means you still got some part of you that wants to reach for people instead of shutting them out... Don’t lose that.”

Then, with a slow exhale, he tipped his chin toward the kitchen. “Now. You feeling up to helping me make some soup? And by that, I mean you can sit at the counter and keep me company while I cut vegetables.” He smiled at her, a look that seemed to silently ask please?, before strolling back into the kitchen.

i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again