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
When Damien levels that steady, dark-eyed gaze at me, I feel pinned like a moth on glass. And what he says… warmth creeps into my cheeks despite the sting of cold air and pain. His praise is enough to make me forget the wound for a heartbeat, enough to remind me that I mattered in the fight. That I’d bought him the space to drive steel through the leopard’s heart.
Watching him stitch himself is its own kind of torture. Every flicker of pain across his face twists in my stomach. “You didn’t,” I say quickly, voice catching. “Mess up, I mean. I was supposed to have your back.”
I drag in too much breath, and the tug across my ribs is sharp as a knife. I hiss between my teeth, falling back to shallow sips of air. The rhythm steadies when I focus on his voice—the gravel low, quiet, as if afraid the words might slip out of the cave and escape.
What he tells me makes me smile through the ache. I gather each piece of himself he gives me and hold it close, tender as fireflies cupped in my palms—fragile lights against the dark. I shake my head, disbelieving he could think any of it unworthy of sharing.
Then his eyes flick to me, just long enough to see the rawness there. Gods, if there’s anything I understand, it’s that gnawing ache of being meant for more while stuck in the teeth of a smaller life. “All of that was worth telling to me,” I murmur, gratitude weaving tight through the words. My voice wavers, but the truth in it doesn’t.
I keep watching him, the set of his brow carved hard as stone, the twitch of muscle along his jaw when he pulls the thread through. When he’s finally finished, he tests his hand, flexing fingers with a sharp exhale. Relief slips out of me in a shaky sigh—those wounds could’ve stolen more than blood if they’d gone wrong.
He sits back at last and studies me. I don’t speak. For a moment, I think of joking, of easing the tension with something glib, but the words won’t come. I draw the blanket closer instead, and meet his gaze until he breaks it to check my bandages. They’re holding. Thank the gods.
When he presses the waterskin into my hand, I realize how parched I am. The first sip is bliss, the second nearly as good. I grimace at the movement, but I keep my eyes on his, listening to his warning for small sips even though I could drain the whole thing.
By the time he rises to start gathering stones for a windbreak, the fire has warmed the shadows enough that I can almost pretend we’re not bleeding on a cavern floor. He bends to his work, tall frame hunched against the ceiling, every movement deliberate, methodical.
I watch him, shivering less now, ribs hot and aching but held together by thread and stubbornness. My voice is faint in the dim cave, but I manage a crooked smile. “Now, student,” I rasp, deliberately light, “don’t think this gets you out of training with me. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
It’s my way of telling him to stop worrying. To believe I’ll be fine. Even if the cave is still spinning a little and my heart is pounding out of rhythm. He said to talk to him, so I do—even if it comes out as bravado and threadbare humor.
Watching him stitch himself is its own kind of torture. Every flicker of pain across his face twists in my stomach. “You didn’t,” I say quickly, voice catching. “Mess up, I mean. I was supposed to have your back.”
I drag in too much breath, and the tug across my ribs is sharp as a knife. I hiss between my teeth, falling back to shallow sips of air. The rhythm steadies when I focus on his voice—the gravel low, quiet, as if afraid the words might slip out of the cave and escape.
What he tells me makes me smile through the ache. I gather each piece of himself he gives me and hold it close, tender as fireflies cupped in my palms—fragile lights against the dark. I shake my head, disbelieving he could think any of it unworthy of sharing.
Then his eyes flick to me, just long enough to see the rawness there. Gods, if there’s anything I understand, it’s that gnawing ache of being meant for more while stuck in the teeth of a smaller life. “All of that was worth telling to me,” I murmur, gratitude weaving tight through the words. My voice wavers, but the truth in it doesn’t.
I keep watching him, the set of his brow carved hard as stone, the twitch of muscle along his jaw when he pulls the thread through. When he’s finally finished, he tests his hand, flexing fingers with a sharp exhale. Relief slips out of me in a shaky sigh—those wounds could’ve stolen more than blood if they’d gone wrong.
He sits back at last and studies me. I don’t speak. For a moment, I think of joking, of easing the tension with something glib, but the words won’t come. I draw the blanket closer instead, and meet his gaze until he breaks it to check my bandages. They’re holding. Thank the gods.
When he presses the waterskin into my hand, I realize how parched I am. The first sip is bliss, the second nearly as good. I grimace at the movement, but I keep my eyes on his, listening to his warning for small sips even though I could drain the whole thing.
By the time he rises to start gathering stones for a windbreak, the fire has warmed the shadows enough that I can almost pretend we’re not bleeding on a cavern floor. He bends to his work, tall frame hunched against the ceiling, every movement deliberate, methodical.
I watch him, shivering less now, ribs hot and aching but held together by thread and stubbornness. My voice is faint in the dim cave, but I manage a crooked smile. “Now, student,” I rasp, deliberately light, “don’t think this gets you out of training with me. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
It’s my way of telling him to stop worrying. To believe I’ll be fine. Even if the cave is still spinning a little and my heart is pounding out of rhythm. He said to talk to him, so I do—even if it comes out as bravado and threadbare humor.
