“It sure is.” I agree, taking off my own tunic before picking up the ax.
We work in silence for a time. The only sounds are the crack of wood and our labored breathing.
The exertion feels good. It feels right to be using my body for something so simple. Something that doesn’t require strategy or carefully chosen words.
Damon pauses after splitting a particularly stubborn piece. He reaches for a waterskin hanging from a nail on the fence and takes a long drink, then holds it out to me.
I accept it gratefully and drink deeply before handing it back.
“Is everything alright?” Damon asks, taking another pull from the skin.
“Everything is fine.”
He raises a brow. The look says he doesn’t believe me for a moment.
“You look like a male with some serious demons, and I’m not talking about the realm.”
I make a noise of agreement.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The work is tiring, but the kind of tiring that grounds a man. Reminds him that he has a body and that his body is good for more than just carrying around regrets.
“You seemed upset at breakfast,” Damon says, his tone careful. “Particularly when Isla mentioned leaving for the Shifter Court. I know I’m probably overstepping, but things seem…tense between the two of you.”
I pick up a piece of wood and set it on the stump. “That’s because thingsaretense between us.”
“You hate that she’s leaving.”
I bring the ax down. The wood splits cleanly.
“I guess I do.”
Damon makes a noise in his throat. He sets another piece on his own stump but doesn’t swing yet.
“I’ve noticed the way you look at her,” he says after a moment. “Like perhaps she means something to you.”
I freeze, ax raised over my head.
Then I lower it slowly. I stare at the ground, at the scattered wood chips and the hard-packed earth.
“I messed up,” I say finally. “She and I were getting along well. Really well. And then…” I shake my head. “I messed everything up.”
Damon waits, but I don’t elaborate. Some things are too ugly to say out loud. Some failures are too raw.
“Let me put it this way, if I could take a few things back, I would,” I continue. “I would give almost anything to undo what I did. Now she refuses to talk to me. She won’t even give me a moment to explain myself.”
Damon lets out a low breath. It’s the kind of sound a man makes when he recognizes trouble. When he’s been in that exact place himself and knows there are no easy answers.
“Give her space,” he tells me.
“How much space?”
“A lot. Leave her be. Don’t ask to talk, just observe.”
I look at him. “For how long?”
“As long as she needs.”
As long as she needs could mean days or weeks, or months. It could mean forever.
