Because if I lose him—if his shadow vanishes from ahead of me—I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep walking.
The thought hits like a fist to the gut. My knees nearly buckle, and I clench my teeth against the weakness.
I can’t let him see it, but part of me wonders if he already does. If he’s always seen me clearer than I’ve seen myself.
The silence stretches on. My heart beats loud enough to drown out the crunch of sand beneath our feet. When the next gust of wind rises, he shifts again, angling his body so it breaks against him first. Sand sprays across his side, stinging his scars, sparing me. He doesn’t glance back, doesn’t need to.
And I realize—every step, every gesture, he’s been saying the thing I’ve been desperate to hear. Not in words. In action.
You matter. I matter.
The desert presses close, vast and empty, but my chest feels too full, too hot. My grip tightens on the knife at my belt, as if holding something steady will anchor me against this storm inside.
The truth is simple, brutal, impossible to deny.
I’m falling for him.
Not girlish longing. Not naïve hope. Something deeper. Like the desert itself has claimed me and carved his shadow into my bones. And I don’t know if it will save me. Or ruin me.
By midafternoon the suns press through the haze, red coins behind the cloudy grit. The dunes seem endless, each crest bleeding into the next until my legs feel like lead. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, thick and useless. Even the knife at my belt feels too heavy, dragging at my side with every step.
When he stops, I almost stumble into him.
He doesn’t announce it, doesn’t point or gesture—he just halts, his body angled toward a jagged shelf of stone jutting from the dunes. The rock breaks the wind, its shadow stretching long and dark across the sand. Shelter.
Relief floods so fast I nearly sag to my knees. Instead I straighten, clenching my jaw, forcing my steps to steady as I follow him into the narrow patch of shade.
The difference is immediate. The wind drops, the sting of grit fades, and for the first time in hours I can breathe without swallowing sand. My shoulders slump despite myself, my blanket slipping down my arm.
He kneels first, unhooking the water skin slung at his side. His movements are deliberate, efficient, as though every gesture has weight. He uncaps the skin, lifts it to his lips—then stops.
Instead of drinking, he turns and holds it out to me. My throat works, dry and aching. I shake my head, though the sight of water nearly breaks me.
“You haven’t had enough either.”
He doesn’t move. His black eyes fix on mine, steady, unreadable. He tips the skin closer, the water sloshing soft inside, the offer unyielding. Heat rises in my face. I reach out, fingers brushing his as I take it, and the spark that jumps between us makes me falter. My chest aches, a mix of shame and something hotter.
I drink. The water is warm, tasting faintly of leather, but it soothes the raw edges of my throat. I take one long swallow, then another, before I force myself to lower it. My hand trembles as I press it back to him.
He doesn’t take it. He nudges it back into my palm. A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the wind. It’s not just water. It’s choice. Him choosing me. Again. Quiet as always, but undeniable. My chest twists so tight I can barely breathe. I swallow hard, clutching the skin against me.
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it. Quiet, but sharp. “Why do you keep?—”
He tilts his head, just slightly, scars catching the dim light. He doesn’t answer. Not with words. His gaze holds mine, steady and sure, and in that silence I hear it anyway.
Because you matter.
I bite down hard on my lip, trying to cage the sound rising in my throat. My pulse hammers, and I force my eyes away, staring at the grit sliding across the stone. But the weight of his look stays, heavy and hot, as if it brands me where I sit.
I clutch the water skin tighter, my fingers whitening against it. I want to press it back into his hand, to force him to drink. I want to thank him. I want to lean into his steadiness and let it carry me the way it has been carrying me since the canyon.
Instead I just sit here, heart pounding, pretending the ache in my chest is only from hunger, but I know better now.
The shade is thin, barely enough to blunt the sun. It feels like sanctuary after the open dunes. I let my head fall back against the stone, eyes closing for a breath. Sand grits against my scalp, grinding in my hair, but I don’t care.
The scarred warrior settles across from me, his knees bent, lochaber leaning against the wall at his side. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t shift. He just sits there, steady as carved rock, his black eyes unreadable. The silence between us thickens, but it’s not empty; it hums.
Every heartbeat pounds in my ears, louder than the rasp of grit sliding down the cliff face. My mouth tastes of water, but my throat is dry. Not from thirst—from him. I clutch the skin tighter in my lap. My chest aches with everything I can’t say. And then the words slip free anyway.
