“You mock the mountain’s gifts?” K asks, and there’s something in his voice that almost sounds like humor.
I glance up mid-sip. “I’m not mocking. I’m just… calibrating expectations. Last meal I had was from a roadside kiosk. Dry pastry and something that might’ve been sausage. This is actually a significant upgrade.”
He tilts his head slightly, processing.
I take another sip, my body slowly coming back online. With food in my system and my head clearing, awareness sharpens. The cave feels smaller with him this close. I’m hyperaware of the way he watches me—not invasive, but attentive. Like he’s trying to make sense of me.
“Better,” I say, setting the empty bowl aside. “Thank you.”
He nods once, then his attention drops to my chest. “I should check your injuries.”
Oh.
Right.
The injuries that should’ve killed me.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say quickly. “Not really. Just… tender, maybe?”
“May I?” He gestures toward where his oversized shirt hangs on me.
Heat prickles my neck. This is medical. Practical. Except the way my heart thunders suggests my body hasn’t gotten that memo.
“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
He moves with careful deliberation, his fingers finding the hem of the shirt. “Tell me if there is pain.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He lifts the fabric slowly, exposing my ribs and belly. Cool air hits my skin, but K radiates warmth that chases it away. I keep my eyes fixed on the cave ceiling because looking at him while he’s this close, touching me, seems like a bad idea for reasons I’m not ready to examine.
His fingertips brush the skin just below my ribs—barely a touch, but I feel it everywhere. My breath catches.
“The pattern fades,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
I risk a glance down. The lightning-branch marks from before are nearly gone, just faint silvery traces against my skin.
“What was it?” I ask. “The pattern, I mean. What caused it?”
“Fire.” His thumb traces one of the fading lines, and the touch sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with injury. “It leaves… signatures.”
“Fire doesn’t heal people, K. Fire destroys things.”
“Not all fire.” His eyes meet mine, gold bleeding into something darker. “Some fire protects.”
The way he says it—like he knows, like he’s certain—makes my pulse skip.
His hand flattens against my sternum, covering the area where the worst damage must’ve been. His palm is so warm it’s almostuncomfortable, but not quite. It’s the kind of heat that seeps deep, that makes you want to lean into it.
“The bones mended,” he says quietly. “Flesh knit. You should not have survived.”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifts in his expression—wonder, maybe, or relief. “You did.”
We’re close enough that I can see the exact moment his attention shifts from clinical assessment to something else. His eyes track from the healing skin up to my face, lingering on my mouth for half a second before meeting my gaze.
I should say something. Break the moment. Make a joke. That’s what I do—deflect with humor until things feel manageable again.
