"It's alright," she says quietly, glancing around to make sure no one else is close enough to overhear. "I understand. He's... he draws the eye."
That's an understatement that borders on laughable, but Evran appreciates her discretion. "I'm being ridiculous," he mutters, returning his attention to the turnips with deliberate focus. "Ignore me."
"For what it's worth," Eira says, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear it, "I don't think you're as alone in those feelings as you might believe."
Before he can process that statement or ask what she means, she's moved on to another row, leaving him with confusion added to the tangle of emotions already churning in his chest.
The work continues through the morning, the sun climbing higher and warming the air despite the underlying chill. More sections are cleared, more baskets filled and carried back to the stronghold's storage areas. The organized chaos of dozens of people working together has its own beauty, its own rhythm that Evran is beginning to understand as part of what makes this community function.
By midday, someone calls for a break. Water is distributed—cold from the mountain springs—and people sink down wherever there's space, catching their breath and easing sore muscles. Evran finds a spot near the edge of the terrace, grateful for the rest. His hands are dirty, his back aches pleasantly from the labor, and despite his earlier distraction, he's managed to contribute meaningfully to the effort.
He's just taking a long drink of water when a shadow falls across him. He looks up to find Vaike standing there, his own cup in hand, looking down at Evran with an expression that might be amusement.
"Mind if I join you?" the Warlord asks, and Evran's heart immediately kicks into a faster rhythm.
"Of course not," Evran manages, shifting to make space though there's plenty of room.
Vaike settles beside him with a slight groan that suggests even he isn't immune to the physical demands of harvest work. Up close, Evran can see more details—the way his hair has come partially loose from its tie, a few strands falling forward across his forehead. The sheen of sweat on his skin despite the cool air. The dirt under his fingernails and smudged across his palms.
"Good harvest this year," Vaike observes, taking a drink from his cup. "One of the best we've had in recent memory. The weather cooperated better than usual, and we made good decisions about crop rotation and planting times."
"Eira deserves the credit for that," Evran says. "She's brilliant at understanding what the land needs."
"She is," Vaike agrees. "But she's also told me—multiple times—how much your help has meant this season. Said you have excellent instincts for the work and that you've taken genuine interest in learning rather than just going through the motions."
The praise makes Evran flush with pleasure, heat creeping up his neck despite the cool air. "I enjoy it. There's something satisfying about seeing plants grow because of your care, about knowing the work you do directly helps keep people fed."
"That's exactly the attitude that makes you valuable here," Vaike says, and there's warmth in his voice that makes Evran's chest feel tight. "You understand that all work has dignity, that contributing to the community's wellbeing matters regardless of what form that contribution takes. Your father clearly never taught you that."
"No," Evran agrees quietly. "He very much did not."
They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both watching the activity around them as people rest and refresh themselves. Evran is hyperaware of Vaike's presence beside him—the warmth radiating from his body, the slight rise and fall of hisbreathing, the way their shoulders are close enough that Evran could close the distance with barely any movement.
He finds his gaze drawn to Vaike's hands where they rest on his knees—strong hands, scarred from years of training and combat, currently stained with earth from the morning's work. There's something compelling about seeing those hands that can wield a sword with such deadly precision also gentle enough to carefully harvest vegetables without damaging them.
Evran's eyes trace up from Vaike's hands to his forearms, exposed by the rolled sleeves of his work shirt. The muscles there are defined, speaking of the strength it takes to use weapons and tools with equal facility. The tattoos that spiral across Vaike's skin continue past where fabric hides them, and Evran finds himself wondering—not for the first time—how far those intricate patterns extend, what stories they tell, what it would feel like to trace them with his fingers.
The thought sends heat flooding through him that has nothing to do with the sun or the physical labor. He should look away, should focus on something safer, but he's caught in the cataloging of details—the way a small scar crosses Vaike's left forearm, the dusting of dark hair on his skin, the flex of muscle when he shifts position.
"Evran."
His name spoken in that deep voice makes him jerk his attention up, and he finds Vaike watching him with an intensity that steals his breath. Those steel-gray eyes are fixed on his face with sharp focus, and there's something in them that makes Evran's heart stutter in his chest.
Vaike knows. Knows exactly what Evran was looking at, what he was thinking. The realization should fill Evran with shame or embarrassment, should make him look away and stammer some excuse. But he finds he can't look away, can't do anythingbut meet that penetrating gaze and try to breathe through the sudden tension that's pulled taut between them.
The moment stretches, heavy with things unsaid. Around them, people are talking and laughing, continuing their rest break, but Evran is aware of none of it. There's only Vaike's eyes on his, the way the Warlord's expression has gone carefully neutral except for something dark and heated in his gaze that makes Evran's skin feel too tight.
He can see Vaike's chest rising and falling slightly faster than the physical exertion would warrant. Can see the way his jaw has tightened, the tension in his shoulders that speaks of restraint being actively maintained. Can see, with absolute certainty, that whatever is crackling between them isn't one-sided, isn't just Evran's desperate imagination.
Vaike feels it too. Whatever this is, it affects him as well.
The knowledge sends electricity down Evran's spine, makes his breathing shallow and his hands tremble slightly where they're clenched around his water cup. He wants to move closer, wants to close the remaining inches between them, wants to finally—finally—do something about this tension that seems to follow them through every interaction.
But fear keeps him frozen. Fear of misreading the moment, of pushing too far, of breaking whatever fragile thing exists between them. And beneath that, the deeper fear that even if Vaike wants him, even if this attraction is mutual, it might not be enough. Might not overcome whatever reasons keep the Warlord maintaining this careful distance.
Vaike's lips part slightly, like he might say something, and Evran finds his attention drawn to that mouth. Wonders what it would feel like, what Vaike would taste like, whether he'd be gentle or fierce if he finally closed the distance between them.
Then Vaike blinks, and the moment shatters like glass.
