Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
I recognize the look on his face instantly—the immovable refusal, that sternness I’d seen years ago when I’d beg to tag along where I absolutely shouldn’t. The same look that meant no, but never don’t care. I only hope he doesn’t regret bringing me this time. That he’ll still bring me the next.
I manage a weak smile. “Stubborn.”
I watch him dig into his pack with his good hand, still covered in my blood. My breathing is ragged, every inhale like glass against my ribs. And gods help me, I wonder if my mom would be disappointed to see me so close to tears. If my dad would’ve lost a sliver of pride in me. If Damien would respect me less for it.
He lays out a bedroll with all the care of someone building a shrine, then crouches to drape a blanket over my shoulders. His eyes catch mine, steady and intent, and my chest clenches tight. His hands hold the edges of a blanket a moment longer. “Thank you,” is all I can manage, soft and thin.
He sets to back to work, and I hold my breath against the pull of stitches, against the sound that wants to slip from my throat, as I ease down onto the bedroll. It’s warm—so much warmer than the frosty stone floor. Damien returns to the fire, stoking it until the flames flicker high enough to breathe. The smell of antiseptic joins blood and smoke in the air, sharp enough to sting my nose.
I find myself tracing the rhythm of his work—methodical, relentless—until I realize my focus keeps slipping. My teeth chatter. I’m fucking cold. The pain, at least, is steady. And steady I can work with.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I blink, pulled back from the edge of drifting off. Breathing shallow—full breaths aren’t an option—I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, and whisper, “I’m okay.” The words are thin, but I try to make them sound true.
I shift a little closer to the fire, swallowing the groan that claws its way up my throat. It’s humiliating, how bad this hurts. Just scratches—deep ones, sure, from a very large predator—but still. One strike, and I’m down. Shame burns almost as hot as the wound. My fists tighten in the blanket, and so I look at him instead. At the way his hands move, every stitch its own promise. His expression carved into sharp lines, as though nothing else in the world exists but this.
And before I can think better of it, the words tumble out: “If I die in here, you better tell everyone I went down fighting a bear with my fists, and took it down with me. A really big one. Covered in spikes. With fangs like swords.” My voice is breathless, my smile crooked, but it’s there—a desperate stab at levity, a flicker of mischief through the pain. I make the mistake of adjusting my position closer to the fire again, and I clear my throat around the groan. ”If you weren’t here stopping that from happening, what would you be doing right now? What do you do when you’re not hunting? Or working. Don’t say work.”
I manage a weak smile. “Stubborn.”
I watch him dig into his pack with his good hand, still covered in my blood. My breathing is ragged, every inhale like glass against my ribs. And gods help me, I wonder if my mom would be disappointed to see me so close to tears. If my dad would’ve lost a sliver of pride in me. If Damien would respect me less for it.
He lays out a bedroll with all the care of someone building a shrine, then crouches to drape a blanket over my shoulders. His eyes catch mine, steady and intent, and my chest clenches tight. His hands hold the edges of a blanket a moment longer. “Thank you,” is all I can manage, soft and thin.
He sets to back to work, and I hold my breath against the pull of stitches, against the sound that wants to slip from my throat, as I ease down onto the bedroll. It’s warm—so much warmer than the frosty stone floor. Damien returns to the fire, stoking it until the flames flicker high enough to breathe. The smell of antiseptic joins blood and smoke in the air, sharp enough to sting my nose.
I find myself tracing the rhythm of his work—methodical, relentless—until I realize my focus keeps slipping. My teeth chatter. I’m fucking cold. The pain, at least, is steady. And steady I can work with.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I blink, pulled back from the edge of drifting off. Breathing shallow—full breaths aren’t an option—I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, and whisper, “I’m okay.” The words are thin, but I try to make them sound true.
I shift a little closer to the fire, swallowing the groan that claws its way up my throat. It’s humiliating, how bad this hurts. Just scratches—deep ones, sure, from a very large predator—but still. One strike, and I’m down. Shame burns almost as hot as the wound. My fists tighten in the blanket, and so I look at him instead. At the way his hands move, every stitch its own promise. His expression carved into sharp lines, as though nothing else in the world exists but this.
And before I can think better of it, the words tumble out: “If I die in here, you better tell everyone I went down fighting a bear with my fists, and took it down with me. A really big one. Covered in spikes. With fangs like swords.” My voice is breathless, my smile crooked, but it’s there—a desperate stab at levity, a flicker of mischief through the pain. I make the mistake of adjusting my position closer to the fire again, and I clear my throat around the groan. ”If you weren’t here stopping that from happening, what would you be doing right now? What do you do when you’re not hunting? Or working. Don’t say work.”
