He rises to his full height, lochaber in hand, eyes sweeping the canyon, sharp and deliberate, while I sit frozen on the slab of rock, the pod in my palm.
I force myself to breathe. To look too. To prove I’m not a child waiting for him to tell me it’s safe. Out over the open desert beyond, the spires, the hollows, the dunes between. Nothing stirs.
Finally, he lowers the weapon across his back. Not relaxed—never that. But enough to let the silence stand.
My stomach growls loud in the hush, betraying me. His head tilts, and his gaze flicks back to the pods in the pouch.
I pull another one free, fingers clumsy, and split it open with my knife. The skin parts with a wet pop, sap oozing sweet and sharp. The smell makes my mouth water, makes me feel half-drunk with hunger. I offer the pulp without thinking, my hand trembling as I hold it toward him.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he leans in, takes it from my palm with claws that barely graze my skin. His touch is cool,precise, yet it leaves a trail that burns hotter than fire. He eats without breaking his stare, jaw flexing as he chews.
Something twists low in my stomach. Something more than hunger.
I drop my eyes, unable to hold his while these feelings rage inside, and focus on cutting another pod. This one I taste myself, sweet pulp sticking to my lips. Relief sweeps through me like water after a drought—the hunger finally receding.
We eat in silence, splitting one pod after another, sticky sap coating our fingers. The canyon groans again, but softer this time, the storm muffling it to a distant hum. I should be afraid still, but the taste in my mouth and the weight of him beside me make it easier to breathe.
When I glance up, his eyes are still on me. Watching. Definitely not dismissive.
I lick juice from my thumb, pulse stuttering when his gaze follows the movement. Heat floods my cheeks. I shift on the rock, but there’s nowhere to go—the canyon stretches to either side, the wall rising, and here he sits close enough that I feel the air stir with every breath he takes.
The silence feels like something shared. Something waiting. I curl my hand into the pouch, sticky fingers trembling.
“It’s enough to last us,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I mean the pods or this moment.
He doesn’t answer, instead leaning back slightly, his scars and scales reflecting the filtered light in jagged lines. When his hand brushes mine again, deliberately, I don’t pull away. Not this time.
The silence thickens. Not heavy like fear, but charged, alive, like the air before lightning strikes. My pulse hammers so hard I feel it in our touch.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand settles over mine. Not crushing, not commanding—just there. Covering. The cool weight of his scales sends a shock up my arm, makes my skin prickle as if I’ve stepped into fire instead of shade.
I should look away. Pretend it’s nothing. But my gaze drags up, helpless, and finds his.
His fathomless black eyes lock on and pull me under. There’s no soft warmth in them, no easy kindness—but something deeper, sharper. A promise and a claim.
My throat tightens. My lips part without sound.
The faintest rasp of breath escapes him, barely more than the stir of air. He leans in, not quite touching beyond our hands, but close enough that I feel the weight of him press into the space between us.
The wind picks up, moaning through the bones below, but up here it’s only him and me, our shoulders nearly brushing, our hands locked together.
I don’t know who moves first, me or him, but suddenly my shoulder presses fully against his, cool scales rough against my sleeve.
My chest aches with the force of wanting—wanting him to see me, to want me back, to never let this tether between us go slack.
For a heartbeat, the world is still.
His thumb shifts against my knuckle. A tiny motion, but enough to make my breath catch, my heart stutter, my whole body lean instinctively closer.
The silence sings.
If I lean an inch more, I’ll be in his arms. If he turns his head, my lips will brush his scars. The thought burns so hot I can hardly breathe.
He doesn’t move. And neither do I.
We sit there, hands clasped, shoulders pressed, every breath tangled together, the pull between us undeniable.
Then a sound from somewhere up the canyon. Something shifts. It snaps through the charged silence like a blade cutting taut rope.
