“You’ve learned better than your father, then.”
She turned to leave, pausing at the threshold. “You—eat more salt. Humans from the plains always forget it at altitude.”
Then she was gone.
I stood there, heart pounding. “Who was that?”
“My aunt,” Rygnar said. “She designed most of the upper dwellings.”
“Oh,” I said faintly. “She seemed… opinionated.”
“She is,” he agreed. “She would have told me if you were unwelcome.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“She didn’t,” I said.
“No.”
I looked around the room—the second pallet neatly arranged, the partition adjusted just enough to grant privacy without separation, and the extra hook he’d added for my jacket so it wouldn’t brush the vent.
“You changed things,” I said slowly. “For me.”
“Yes.”
Not if you stay. Not until you leave.
Just yes.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know,” he said. “But you live here now.”
The words sent a strange warmth through my chest, equal parts comfort and fear.
Live. Not recover. Not hide.
Live.
He crossed to the basin and poured water, adding a pinch of mineral salt before setting the cup in front of me.
“You forgot this,” he said. “Your hands shake later when you don’t.”
I stared at the cup. “How long have you been noticing that?”
He hesitated only a fraction. “Since the second morning.”
I took a sip. The water tasted sharper, cleaner. Better.
“I’m not easy to live with,” I said, the confession slipping out before I could stop it. “I move things. I wake at odd hours. I count exits without thinking. I—”
“I know,” he said gently.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still…” I gestured vaguely at the room, the mountain, and the life pressing quietly around us. “Okay with this?”
