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.”
“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
so i can never feel alone again
