"Good." She sighs and her head drops to rest against my shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You smell nice. Like herbs and smoke. Safe smells."
I am insomuch trouble.
It is the only thought I can seem to process today.
I adjust my grip slightly and start walking, keeping my pace steady and even so the movement doesn't disturb her too much. The night air carries early spring cold, sharp enough to see our breath but not uncomfortable when moving. Above, stars scatter across the clear sky in patterns I've memorized from countless nights checking on patients.
Ressa's cabin sits at the settlement edge, small and practical and far enough from the main parts of the base that she can maintain distance from the constant orc presence. I navigate the familiar path automatically while cataloging every small shift in how she's positioned against me.
Her breathing has evened out, deep and regular. Her grip on my shirt loosens slightly but doesn't release. The hand on my shoulder traces small absent patterns against the fabric, like she's not fully aware she's doing it.
Trust. She trusts me enough to let me carry her, to rest against me without fear, to ask me to stay when she's vulnerable.
The responsibility of that trust should feel heavy. Instead it settles into my chest like something inevitable, like I was alwaysgoing to end up here holding her while she feels safe enough to lower every careful wall she's built.
I reach her cabin and manage the door without jostling her too badly. Inside, the space is neat and sparse—minimal furniture, everything organized with the kind of precision that suggests control maintained through small rituals. A single lantern burns low on the table, casting warm light across simple living quarters.
I carry her to her room in the back and lower her carefully to the bed, supporting her weight until she's settled against the blankets. She makes a small sound of protest when I start to pull away.
"Don't go yet." Her fingers tighten in my shirt again, beautiful brown eyes blinking up at me with alcohol-hazed focus. "You promised you'd stay."
"I'm just getting you settled." I work to keep my voice level, clinical, even while my pulse does complicated things at the vulnerable trust in her expression. "Let me help you with your boots."
She considers this, then nods and releases my shirt. I kneel beside the bed and work the laces of her boots with careful efficiency, aware of her watching me the entire time. The leather is worn but well-maintained, practical footwear for someone who needs reliable mobility.
I set the boots aside and reach for the blanket, pulling it up over her legs. She shifts to help, movements still slightly uncoordinated but more controlled than earlier.
"Your ribs hurt?" I ask, noting how she favors her left side while settling.
"A little." She doesn't try to lie this time, which says something about how the alcohol has lowered her usual defenses. "Not terrible. Just... aware of them."
"I can make tea if?—"
"No." Her hand catches my wrist before I can stand. "Just stay. Like you promised."
The touch burns through my skin, her fingers surprisingly warm against my pulse point. I should extract myself, maintain appropriate boundaries, remember that she's drunk and vulnerable and trusting me specifically because I've been professional about our interactions.
Instead I settle onto the floor beside her, my back against the wall, her hand still wrapped loosely around my wrist.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She adjusts position slightly, getting comfortable while keeping that connection between us. "Tell me something."
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Just... talk. Your voice helps when everything's spinny."
My voice helps. The confession does dangerous things to my already compromised composure, but I push past it and search for something safe to share.
"When I was young, maybe eight seasons, my mother took me on my first healing call." The memory surfaces easily, warm and clear. "A farmer had crushed his hand in equipment. My father said it was weakness to bother helping, that the male should heal on his own or die trying."
Ressa's thumb traces small circles against my wrist, unconscious movement that suggests she's listening even with her eyes half-closed.
"My mother went anyway. Took me with her. Spent six hours setting bones and stitching cuts while the male screamed." I can still remember the sound, the smell of blood and fear, how my stomach had churned at the visceral reality of injury. "When we finished, my father was waiting. Said she'd embarrassed him by defying orders."
"What did she do?"
"Looked him in the eye and told him that honor wasn't in following orders. It was in choosing what kind of strength to cultivate." I smile slightly at the memory, at my mother's absolute conviction in the face of my father's rage. "Then she handed me her supplies and said I'd be apprenticing under her from that day forward."
