The cold gnaws at me like a relentless predator, and as I trudge through the snow-laden forest path, I feel its grip tightening. My limbs are heavier than usual, my breath comes in shorter bursts, and there's an ache in my chest I can't quite shake. I tell myself it's just exhaustion. After all, between the odd jobs, the constant worry, and ensuring she has enough to eat, sleep hasn't exactly been my closest companion.
But by the time I stumble back to the shack that evening, my body betrays me. My legs feel like they're made of lead, my head pounds with a dull, throbbing ache, and the chill has settled deep into my bones. When I push the creaky door open, I see her sitting by the fire, her dark hair catching the flickering light, and for a moment, I feel a pang of relief. She's safe. That's all that matters.
"You're late," she says, glancing up. Her voice is soft but carries a warmth that wraps around me like a blanket.
"Yeah," I mutter, setting down the small bundle of firewood I managed to gather. "The forest didn't make it easy today."
She frowns, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. "You look… off."
"I'm fine," I say quickly, waving off her concern. The words feel hollow even as I speak them, my voice rasping more than usual.
"You don't sound fine," she counters, standing up.
I try to brush past her to tend to the fire, but the room spins, and before I know it, I'm slumping against the wall, my knees giving way beneath me.
"Eric!" Her voice is sharp with worry as she rushes to my side, her hands steadying me.
"I'm fine," I insist weakly, though my body says otherwise.
"No, you're not," she snaps, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Lie down."
I don't have the strength to argue. She helps me over to the cot, her touch surprisingly gentle as she eases me down. The blanket feels scratchy against my fevered skin, but I'm too tired to care. My eyes drift shut, the world blurring around me.
When I wake, the room is dim, the only light coming from the embers glowing faintly in the hearth. My body aches, every movement sending a ripple of discomfort through me. But what surprises me most is the damp cloth resting on my forehead and the faint scent of something herbal wafting through the air.
She's sitting beside me, her expression a mixture of worry and concentration as she stirs a small pot over the fire. When she notices me stirring, she sets the spoon down and turns to me.
"You're awake," she says softly.
"Yeah," I croak, my throat dry.
"Here," she says, lifting a cup of water to my lips. I drink slowly, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
"You didn't have to—"
"Don't," she interrupts, her tone firm but not unkind. "You've been taking care of me for days. Let me return the favor."
I don't have the energy to argue, so I let her help me sit up. The movement sends a wave of dizziness through me, but her steady hands keep me from toppling over.
She brings a small bowl of something warm and fragrant, holding it out to me. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."
I take the bowl, the warmth seeping into my fingers. The taste is simple—just boiled roots and herbs—but it's comforting in a way I didn't expect.
"How did you…?"
"I remembered seeing some herbs in the forest when I was younger," she explains. "They're supposed to help with fevers. I'm not sure if it's the same here, but I figured it was worth a try."
Her resourcefulness surprises me, but what strikes me most is the way she looks at me—like she's seeing me for the first time.
"You've been starving yourself," she says suddenly, her voice quiet but laced with accusation.
"I—"
"Don't lie," she cuts me off. "I've been watching you, Eric. You've been giving me all the food and barely eating anything yourself. Why?"
Her question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know what to say.
"You needed it more," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
She stares at me, her eyes searching mine. "You're an idiot," she says, but there's no malice in her tone, only a mix of frustration and something else—something softer.
"You were hurt," I say, trying to defend myself. "I couldn't just—"
"You could've died," she interrupts, her voice breaking slightly.
Her words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. I look away, unable to meet her gaze.
For the rest of the evening, she barely leaves my side. She tends to the fire, checks my temperature, and even coaxes me into eating another bowl of the herbal broth. Her care is methodical, almost instinctive, and it's in these small gestures that I feel myself falling deeper.
The next morning, I wake to find her sitting by the window, the first rays of sunlight catching in her dark hair. She looks lost in thought, her gaze distant.
"Morning," I say, my voice still hoarse but stronger than the night before.
She turns to me, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"
"Better," I admit, though my body still aches. "Thanks to you."
She shrugs, but I don't miss the faint blush that colors her cheeks.
"I owe you one," I say, pushing myself up despite the protest of my muscles.
"You owe me nothing," she replies firmly. "If anything, I owe you."
Her words linger in my mind as I get up and start moving around. Despite my lingering weakness, I feel a strange lightness in my chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.
I watch her as she moves about the shack, tidying up and tending to the fire. There's a quiet grace to her movements, a strength that belies her fragile appearance. And in that moment, I realize just how much she's come to mean to me.
I don't know when it happened—maybe it was the way she smiled at me that first morning, or the way she sat by my side when I was at my weakest. But somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing her as just a stranger.
And that terrifies me.