She made this. Spent time creating something specifically for me.
"I know it's…practical," Ressa says quickly, misreading my silence as disappointment. "But I thought—you're always working outside in cold weather and I wanted you to have something warm and the colors reminded me of you and?—"
I take the wrap from her hands carefully, my fingers tracing the tight, even stitches. The yarn is soft, high quality, probably acquired through trade. The pattern incorporates symbols I vaguely recognize—protection and strength woven throughout the design.
She thought about this. Considered what I'd need and what I'd like and poured effort into creating something meaningful.
"It's perfect," I manage, my voice coming rough with emotions I'm not equipped to process. "Thank you."
Her expression shifts from nervous to pleased, relief and happiness flickering across her features. "You really like it?"
"I really like it." I mean the words more than she probably realizes. The wrap itself is beautiful and practical, but what it represents matters more—that she sees me clearly enough to choose colors that match, that she cares whether I stay warm during winter work.
That she spent hours making something just for me.
I set the wrap aside carefully and pull the small wrapped bundle from my pocket. Suddenly the bracelet feels inadequate—too simple compared to her elaborate knitting work, too straightforward when she put such thought into patterns and symbolism.
But it's too late to reconsider. I unwrap the soft leather and reveal what I've made.
The bracelet gleams in the firelight—silver metal worked into a delicate chain, small charms attached at intervals. Each charm carries specific meaning: a shield for protection, a leaf forgrowth, a crescent moon for safety in darkness, a small hammer representing strength.
And at the center, a carefully carved piece of green stone shaped like a sprouting seedling.
New beginnings.
"I—" Words stick in my throat like burrs caught on fabric. "Each charm represents something. Protection. Strength. Safety. I wanted you to have—to know that?—"
Fuck, I'm terrible at this.
Ressa takes the bracelet from my palm with careful fingers, her expression unreadable as she examines each charm in turn. The silence stretches long enough that anxiety starts crawling up my spine, whispering that I've miscalculated, chosen wrong, made something she'll accept out of politeness rather than genuine appreciation.
Then she looks up at me and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"It's beautiful," she whispers. "Will you put it on me?"
Relief crashes through my system with enough force to leave me lightheaded. "Yeah. Of course."
She extends her left wrist, the gesture carrying trust that makes my chest constrict painfully. I take her hand in mine—her skin warm against my cooler touch, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath my fingers. The bracelet clasp opens easily, my healer-trained precision making quick work of fastening it despite my internal chaos.
The metal settles against her wrist like it belongs there. Like I made it specifically to adorn this particular stretch of skin and bone.
Which I did. Obviously. But seeing it actually on her makes the abstract concept concrete in ways my brain struggles to process.
She's wearing something I made. Something that represents every protective instinct I've been trying to maintain professional distance from for weeks. Every time she looks at her wrist she'll see these charms and maybe think of me.
Maybe remember that someone cares whether she stays safe.
Ressa turns her wrist, watching the charms catch firelight. "I love it. Really. Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." My voice comes low, rough with things I don't know how to express properly. "I wanted you to have it."
Our eyes meet and hold. The noise of the feast hall fades to background static, my entire awareness narrowing to the female in front of me and the way she's looking at me like I've given her something precious instead of a simple bracelet.
I want to kiss her. The urge hits with startling intensity—wanting to close the small distance between us and taste her mouth again, feel her respond the way she did yesterday when we created rainbows and everything felt possible.
But we're surrounded by clan members. And I don't know if she wants that kind of public display. Don't know if kissing her here would be welcome or overwhelming or pushing too hard when she's barely comfortable being around crowds.
I spent forty years knowing exactly what patients needed. Reading body language and symptoms to create accurate treatment plans. Somehow with Ressa all that clinical observation fails me, leaving me uncertain and aching with wanting her in ways I don't have adequate experience navigating.
