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
His first response is so cold and sharp it nicks—I’ll manage—and a flicker of hurt cuts through me before it hardens into frustrating heat. I’m not asking whether he can survive discomfort; I’m telling him he doesn’t have to, and he knows it. The cave hums with wind around the stone lip, the fire snaps and throws restless light, and I lift my chin into that glow, meeting his dark gaze without blinking. A silent dare, bright and thin as a blade.
He only breaks eye contact because Aria abandons my lap and flops into his with a determined little thump. I don’t look away. If my ribs weren’t screaming, I’d cross my arms; instead my face does the folding for me, a flat, unimpressed line. He sighs—small, frayed at the edges—and one of my brows climbs.
“There’s not a lot of room.”
That isn't what I care about.
“I don’t want to hurt you in my sleep.”
”Damien,” I deadpan.
Even he seems to hear how flimsy that sounds. Another sigh, longer this time; some of the tension leaks out of him like heat into the cave air. Then he gives in.
Relief—not triumph—ricochets through me, loosening something tight in my chest. Smoke and antiseptic mingle on the air as I open my arms for Aria. I watch every precise motion he makes like I’m memorizing them, the fire’s copper light sliding over his hands. When he offers the flask, I eye it like it might bite, then take it, grateful. I wait until he’s settled, shadows carving his cheekbones, the wind hissing softer behind our little wall, and then I drink.
I do not expect what hits my tongue. I take too big a swallow and almost sputter; the burn tears down my throat and floods my chest, pooling in my stomach like lava. My eyes water. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and rasp, “Shit.” Embarrassment prickles hot under the chill.
I shake my head, cheeks warming in the firelight. “I’ve only been a little drunk once,” I confess, the words small in the cavern’s hush. “First time drinking. Like… a month ago. With mix drinks. The shots were mixed too.”
Keeping my word, I let Aria clamber across me and reclaim him, a spotted heat-seeking missile. I brace and take another, smaller sip—lesson learned—before passing the flask back. Carefully, gingerly, I lower myself onto the bedroll on my good side. The world tightens to stitch-pull and breath; a hiss slips between my teeth as the fresh pain crests and ebbs. I ride it out, counting heartbeats to the crackle of the fire, to the cub’s soft, squeaky rumble.
When the wave passes, I inch the blanket over him too—whether he likes it or not. Wool whispers over his shoulder; my fingers linger long enough to make the point, to bridge the inches the wind keeps trying to steal.
“If we sleep touching, we’ll both be warmer,” I murmur, voice low, the cave swallowing the edges. A beat, and I quickly add, “Back to back.”
I don’t say please. I tighten my grip on the blanket instead and let the offer stand there between us like a small, stubborn fire: practical on the surface, yes—but underneath, something that says I'd ask him to even if it wasn't practical.
He only breaks eye contact because Aria abandons my lap and flops into his with a determined little thump. I don’t look away. If my ribs weren’t screaming, I’d cross my arms; instead my face does the folding for me, a flat, unimpressed line. He sighs—small, frayed at the edges—and one of my brows climbs.
“There’s not a lot of room.”
That isn't what I care about.
“I don’t want to hurt you in my sleep.”
”Damien,” I deadpan.
Even he seems to hear how flimsy that sounds. Another sigh, longer this time; some of the tension leaks out of him like heat into the cave air. Then he gives in.
Relief—not triumph—ricochets through me, loosening something tight in my chest. Smoke and antiseptic mingle on the air as I open my arms for Aria. I watch every precise motion he makes like I’m memorizing them, the fire’s copper light sliding over his hands. When he offers the flask, I eye it like it might bite, then take it, grateful. I wait until he’s settled, shadows carving his cheekbones, the wind hissing softer behind our little wall, and then I drink.
I do not expect what hits my tongue. I take too big a swallow and almost sputter; the burn tears down my throat and floods my chest, pooling in my stomach like lava. My eyes water. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and rasp, “Shit.” Embarrassment prickles hot under the chill.
I shake my head, cheeks warming in the firelight. “I’ve only been a little drunk once,” I confess, the words small in the cavern’s hush. “First time drinking. Like… a month ago. With mix drinks. The shots were mixed too.”
Keeping my word, I let Aria clamber across me and reclaim him, a spotted heat-seeking missile. I brace and take another, smaller sip—lesson learned—before passing the flask back. Carefully, gingerly, I lower myself onto the bedroll on my good side. The world tightens to stitch-pull and breath; a hiss slips between my teeth as the fresh pain crests and ebbs. I ride it out, counting heartbeats to the crackle of the fire, to the cub’s soft, squeaky rumble.
When the wave passes, I inch the blanket over him too—whether he likes it or not. Wool whispers over his shoulder; my fingers linger long enough to make the point, to bridge the inches the wind keeps trying to steal.
“If we sleep touching, we’ll both be warmer,” I murmur, voice low, the cave swallowing the edges. A beat, and I quickly add, “Back to back.”
I don’t say please. I tighten my grip on the blanket instead and let the offer stand there between us like a small, stubborn fire: practical on the surface, yes—but underneath, something that says I'd ask him to even if it wasn't practical.
