Too sore to argue, she obeyed, watching curiously as he retrieved a large wooden tub from the rafters, then started filling it from the pot of water he kept simmering over the fire. After adding cool water from the water barrel and checking the temperature, he gestured at the tub.
“A hot bath will help.”
A bath? In a wooden tub? The memory of her enormous marble tub floated across her mind for a fleeting moment, but even in this minimal form, the lure of hot water was too hard to resist. She slowly and painfully climbed to her feet, then realized the situation. The tub sat in the middle of the cabin. There was nowhere to hide. No screen. No privacy.
“I’ll go get more firewood,” he said.
He left, pulling the heavy door shut behind him, and she quickly shed the oversized linen shirt and eased her body into the steaming water. The heat provided instant relief, seeping into her sore muscles in waves of comforting warmth. She leaned her head back against the tub, closed her eyes, and let out a long sigh.
This was luxury. Not the kind she was used to—the kind that came with servants and silver and fine linens—but the kind that came from simple comfort after hard effort.
The door opened a few minutes later and she instinctively drew her knees up, covering herself as much as possible. He entered with more firewood, not even glancing at her in the tub as he added the wood to the storage bin. Then he retrieved a smallcake of soap from his supplies and handed it to her. He still wasn’t looking at her, but their fingers brushed as she took the soap and electricity sparked between them.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the small room.
He didn’t answer, just turned away and busied himself with something at the other end of the cabin. He’d seen more of her naked body than anyone ever had, but this felt different—more intimate, more vulnerable. She washed herself quickly, the soap smelling of herbs and something wild and clean that she now associated with him.
When she emerged from the bath, wrapped in the linen towel he’d left for her, her skin was pink and tingling and the worst of the muscle pain had subsided to a dull ache.
“Thank you,” she said, her back to him as she dressed again in the too-large clothes, feeling almost human.
“An injured companion is a complication,” he said brusquely, and she tried not to dwell on the word companion.
“Still,” she said, turning to face him. “Thank you.”
He grunted in what seemed to have become his standard response to her gratitude, and she hid a small smile.
“The pain will be less today,” he added. “But you’ll still be sore.”
“I can handle it.”
That earned her an almost-smile. “We’ll see.”
The next few days settled into a routine. Mornings began with him already awake and working while she still felt like she’d been torn apart and reassembled by a disinterested artisan. Butshe climbed out of bed and did the stretches he’d taught her—simple movements that hurt at first but gradually loosened her tight muscles until she could move without wincing.
Then came lessons. He was a patient teacher, although a demanding one. He showed her exactly how to do something, then expected her to replicate it perfectly. When she failed, he made her do it again. And again. Until she got it right.
“You’re still holding the knife like you’re afraid it’ll bite you,” he said, standing behind her and wrapping his much larger hand around hers to adjust her grip. “Grip it like it’s part of your arm.”
His chest was against her back, warm and solid. His breath tickled her ear. She wanted to lean into him, to feel more of that heat, but she forced herself to focus on the knife.
“Like this?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“Better. Now slice. Thin. Even.”
Her hand trembled as she drew the blade through the meat, producing a slice that was still imperfect but better than her previous attempts.
“Again.”
She spent the entire morning slicing meat, her focus sharpening with each repetition until her movements became more fluid, more confident.
Afternoons were for chores. Cleaning the cabin, mending clothes—she’d discovered she was surprisingly good with a needle and thread, having learned decorative embroidery as a child—organizing the supplies in a logical system that made him grumble but never actually change.
“The herbs are grouped by use,” she explained when he pointed out that she’d rearranged his entire shelf. “Healing ones here. Ones for seasoning food here. The ones you use for salves in this separate container. It’s more efficient.”
“Efficient,” he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
“You’ll thank me when you’re not searching for twenty minutes to find the right leaf.”
