Fiona sat by the fire Harris had built as her cheek throbbed where the redcoat’s slap had bloomed purple. Harris worked in silence across from her, sharpening his dirk with long, deliberate strokes, each scrape cutting through the night.
He hadn’t told her to leave.
But he hadn’t exactly invited her to stay.
Typical.
Fiona watched him from the corner of her eye. The firelight carved him in pieces—jaw tense, knuckles split, shirt torn just enough to show the dark smear of blood where his bandage had soaked through.
“You’re bleeding again,” she said finally.
“Aye.”
“You should sit still.”
“I am sittin’ still.”
She glared at him. “You should let me see to it.”
“I dinnae need tendin’.”
“You do,” she insisted, rising despite her sore hip. “You’ll trail blood like breadcrumbs for the next patrol.”
His eyes snapped up, sharp as flint. “Sit down, lass.”
“Stop calling me lass.”
“Then stop orderin’ me about.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and sat anyway, lowering herself stiffly beside the fire. Harris resumed sharpening his blade, though his jaw still clenched like a man who wanted to argue but didn’t have the breath for it.
Silence stretched between them.
Not hostile.
Not comfortable.
Just… aware.
Fiona shifted, pulling her cloak tighter. The night was colder than she’d expected, the adrenaline flush long gone now, leaving her shivering.
Without a word, Harris tossed a spare blanket across the fire.
Fiona startled. “What’s this?”
“Ye’re cold.”
She blinked. “You noticed.”
“I notice everythin’ that’ll keep us alive another day.”
It was not kindness.
She wrapped herself anyway.
Harris finally set the dirk down and stood, grimacing as his wound pulled. Fiona’s worry flickered outward before she could swallow it back.
“You’ll tear it open worse if you keep messin’ about.” she huffed.
