He looks at it. Then at me. Finally, his massive fingers—slow and precise—curl around the bar. Not snatching. Not hasty. Just... taking it thoughtfully.
I notice the scar on his forearm again, the jagged silver line against the dark fur. Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers hovering just above it.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask softly.
He looks at the scar, then at me. “I lose more than I win,” he says. It’s not loud. Not a complaint. Just... fact.
I blink. Really blink. Then I smile. Not pity. Not sorrow. Just acceptance.
“Well,” I say, quirking a smile, “we all lose sometimes.”
He doesn’t answer. But his head tilts, perceptive and deliberate. Close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him—a slow, living heat that seeps into my bones.
We eat. Not talking, not watching the world. Just sharing the moment.
I take a slow sip of water, letting the coolness spread across my tongue—the metallic hint of filtered hydration grounding me in the here and now. It’s strange how something so simple feels sacred in this place.
After a few stretches of silence, I find I don’t want to break it—but I do want to speak.
“You were quiet last night,” I say, meeting his gaze directly—something I never could have done before.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his gaze meets mine—steady, curious, unguarded.
“I dreamt about you,” I confess, color rising in my cheeks.
He blinks once. That’s all. But it’s more than enough.
I huff a nervous laugh, fingers twisting in my lap. “Not… not in a scary way. Just… vivid. Like you were right there. Like you were waiting for me.”
His eyes don’t look amused. Not exactly. But there’s a softness there—a lock slightly turned—as if my words moved something inside him.
“I’ve never… dreamt of someone like that,” I add, eyes lowering to the stone floor. “Not like it was real. It felt real.”
Still nothing. But he doesn’t look away. And that silence isn’t cold anymore—it’s thoughtful. Attentive. Like he’s actually listening.
I reach for my compad—not to show him data or graphs, but because it feels right, like a shared language I want him to understand.
“Here,” I say, tilting the screen toward him. “I know you don’t care much about this stuff… but this is the filter calibration I’ve been working on. It might stabilize the water from the northern springs. Want to look?”
He eyes the compad like it’s a glowing artifact. Then, slowly—inch by slow inch—he reaches out, and for the first time, his hand touches mine as he accepts the device.
His skin is warm—way warmer than ambient. Not hot. Not uncomfortable. Just… living heat. Like embers that never burn but always glow.
I don’t flinch. Instead, I let him hold it.
Together we study the screen. I talk while he listens—and this time, he doesn’t look away. He watches me explain things. He watches the data. He watches the flicker of my expression as I get excited about a breakthrough.
He doesn’t say much. But when he does, it matters.
“More pressure required,” he murmurs—low, his voice like rough stone sliding against iron.
I blink because that’s the first time he’s spoken while cooperating with me on something we share. Not just coexist—share.
I nod, adjusting the calibration slightly. “I think you’re right.”
We finish the bar together. And then—in a moment that feels like an exhale after holding your breath too long—I shift closer.
Not too close. Not terrifyingly close. Just close enough that the space between us dissolves like mist in sun.
