Moonlight spilled across the floorboards, painting long silver streaks over the cottage. He lay wrapped in his blanket, dark hair damp at the ends, sharp features illuminated by the pale glow. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, pretending to sort herbs, but my eyes flicked toward him every few seconds.
He stirred slightly, one hand brushing the edge of the blanket. I froze.
"You… awake?" I asked softly, voice trembling despite myself.
His violet eyes opened slowly, sharp and unreadable. A faint smirk curved at the corner of his lips. "Always."
I blinked, unsure how to respond. His tone was flat, nonchalant, almost dismissive, but there was a subtle weight behind it that made me tense. I returned to my herbs, counting leaves silently.
The room stretched into a heavy silence. A flicker of movement—a hand adjusting the blanket—made me glance up.
"Did… you hurt yourself badly?" I asked, careful.
His eyes met mine for a heartbeat, then slid away toward the floor. "Enough to reach you."
I flinched at the words. Cold, indifferent, and yet… they implied he acknowledged me. He had noticed. He had measured me. I focused on the bundle of roots in my lap, pretending to examine them carefully.
I tried again, slower this time. "You… must be tired. Should I… fetch water?"
He shook his head, faintly, eyes returning to mine for a fraction of a second before closing again. "No."
Nonchalant. Silent. Observing.
I pressed my lips together, my heart hammering in my chest. I wanted to ask more, to probe, but I knew better. Questions could reveal too much. Every word had weight.
"You don't… talk much," I said, voice low, testing.
He chuckled softly, a sound that was faint but oddly deliberate. "Words are heavy."
I blinked, a shiver running down my spine. He gave nothing else. His violet eyes glinted for an instant in the moonlight, and then he closed them again, curling slightly beneath the blanket.
I returned to my herbs, but I could feel his gaze tracing my movements. The room felt tighter, charged, each breath and rustle amplified. I reminded myself constantly: careful. Observant. Clever.
Minutes passed. I dared another soft question. "Why… are you in the forest?"
His eyes opened, slow and deliberate, meeting mine. "Fell."
That was it. One word, simple, cold, nonchalant. Yet it carried more meaning than I could grasp. I said nothing, forcing my gaze down.
I noticed a subtle twitch along the black markings on his neck, faint but alive. Dangerous. And yet he remained still, silent, giving nothing away.
"I… didn't expect anyone here," I said, testing again. "Most avoid this part of the woods."
He tilted his head slightly, faint curiosity in the movement. "Not most."
I bit my lip, my fingers fidgeting with a small bundle of roots. He was measuring me, testing me, and I was doing the same in return. Every glance, every movement, a silent negotiation of trust. Or caution. Or perhaps both.
I whispered, almost to myself, "You… don't answer much."
He smirked faintly, almost imperceptibly. "I listen."
I exhaled quietly. That was something—some acknowledgment. Not trust, not connection, but a recognition. A small step in this dance of silence and caution.
The fire crackled, the moonlight shifted across the room. I stole a glance at him. Dark hair, pale skin, sharp jawline, black markings faintly pulsing under the silver light. His violet eyes were closed now, but I could feel the attention in the stillness. He remained aware, nonchalant, silent, but present.
I returned to sorting herbs, counting each one meticulously, but my ears strained for the smallest movement. A shift in the blanket, a breath too loud, anything that could reveal more than intended.
"Will… you be all right?" I asked, voice low, almost hesitant.
He opened one eye, glancing at me, then back to the floor. "I survive."
Simple. Nonchalant. Detached. Yet somehow, the weight behind it made me tense. Survive. That word held more than a promise; it was a warning.
I shifted slightly, keeping my gaze low. The cottage was small, but with him in it, the space felt charged, alive with silent tension. Neither of us spoke much, yet every tiny movement was a test. Every glance, a measure.
"You… aren't afraid?" I asked softly, more to myself than him.
His eyes opened, violet and sharp, catching mine in a fleeting look. "Why should I be?"
I froze. His tone was flat, nonchalant, yet it carried subtle authority, a quiet power that made me aware of every heartbeat in my chest. I looked away quickly, brushing my hair behind my shoulders, pretending to focus on the herbs again.
He remained still, silent, curling slightly beneath the blanket. Nonchalant. Detached. Watching. Measuring.
I exhaled slowly, telling myself: careful. Clever. Observant. Cautious. Everything that mattered had to remain hidden.
And yet, despite the silence, despite the cautious distance, I felt the tension stretch, taut and unyielding. Every small sound, every subtle movement, every faint glance carried meaning.
I dared a small smile, just a flicker, almost invisible. "You… rest. I'll… sort the herbs."
One violet eye flicked toward me, sharp and assessing. Then he closed it again. Nonchalant. Silent. Detached.
I returned to my task, counting leaves, arranging bundles, keeping my movements small and careful. The moonlight shifted, silver patterns stretching across his hair and shoulders, across the floor. The cottage was quiet, alive only with subtle sounds and the weight of two strangers sharing space.
We did not speak again that night. Yet the small words, the few gestures, the careful glances, created a fragile rhythm. Silent testing. Quiet observation. Cautious acknowledgment.
And that was enough. For now.
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