Ralvar didn't intend to wait that long.
But for now—for this morning—they had time.
He turned back toward the watchtower, his pace quickening unconsciously. The hunt was done. The perimeter was secure. There was no tactical reason to hurry.
He hurried anyway.
The watchtower came into view through the trees, and Ralvar felt his chest loosen at the sight of it. Stone walls still standing. No smoke except from the chimney hole he'd cleared seasons ago. No sounds of distress.
She was fine.
He was being ridiculous.
He passed through the doorway—and stopped.
Delia had moved.
She was no longer lying on the furs where he'd left her, wrapped in their warmth. She'd somehow pulled herself across the floor—dragging her injured ankle, he realized, seeing the disturbed dust—until she sat against the far wall, near his pack. His spare tunic was bunched in her lap. A bone needle glinted between her fingers.
She wassewing.
The leather vest he'd worn during the raider fight—the one he'd stripped off and tossed aside last night—was spread across her thighs. He could see the damage clearly now: a long tear along one seam where a raider's blade had caught him, another smaller rip near the collar. Damage he'd intended to repair when he returned to the outpost.
She was repairing it now.
Her hands moved competently. The needle dipped and rose, dipped and rose, drawing the torn leather together with small, precise stitches. She'd found his repair kit in the pack—the leather scraps, the waxed thread, the needles he kept for exactlythis purpose—and she was using them like she'd done this a thousand times.
"You're back."
Her voice startled him. He hadn't realized she'd noticed his presence, so focused had he been on watching her work.
"I—yes." He stepped fully into the room, still holding the rabbits. "The snares were productive."
"Good." She didn't look up from her stitching. "I hope you don't mind that I... went through your things. I saw the tear in your vest and I thought—" A slight flush crept up her cheeks. "I thought I could help."
Ralvar moved closer, setting the rabbits down near the fire pit. His eyes stayed on her hands, on the neat line of stitches marching across the leather.
"You know leatherwork."
She nodded. "My uncle was a cobbler. I helped in his shop when I was young, before he died. I have steady hands, and the work paid better than washing linens."
"The stitching is good."
Her flush deepened. "It's just basic repair work. Nothing special."
"It's better than I would have managed." He knelt by the fire pit, beginning to prepare kindling for a cooking fire.
She studied him before saying, "You're not what I expected. None of this is what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Honestly? I expected to die." Her gaze dropped back to the leather in her lap, to the needle still pinched between her fingers. "When I ran into the forest, I expected to freeze to death, or fall off a cliff, or—" She gestured vaguely. "Get eaten by whatever monster found me first."
"And instead you got me."
"And instead I got you."
Ralvar set the kindling alight, watching the flames catch and spread. He reached for the rabbits, drawing his knife to begin preparing them. The work was familiar and gave him something to focus on besides the woman sitting across from him.
