"The village has been wonderful," she said quietly, accepting the cup I offered. Our fingers brushed, and heat raced up my arm like wildfire. "Everyone has been so welcoming. So generous with their time and their stories. And you..." Her eyes found mine, held them with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "You've made it special, Ruka. Showing me everything, teaching me about your people, your traditions. I never expected to feel so... at home here."
Home.The word burrowed into my chest and lodged itself somewhere near my heart.
"You belong here." The words came out rougher than I intended, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest. "More than you realize."
Even in the moonlight, I caught the flush creeping across her cheeks. She turned away, hiding behind the rim of her cup, but not before I caught the small smile playing at her lips.
My hands needed occupation before they did something reckless—like reaching across the space between us to trace the curve of her jaw. I grabbed the basket. "Roast boar from yesterday's hunt. The cheese and bread are Zuhra's doing."
Jordan's laugh rippled through the darkness, intimate as a touch. "She's been wonderful to me. They all have."
I unwrapped the provisions, arranging them with more care than necessary. Meat here, cheese there, bread and fruit filling the spaces between. Each placement felt deliberate, meaningful—like we were constructing something fragile and precious from these humble offerings. Behind us, the falls thundered their ancient song, wrapping us in a cocoon of sound that made the rest of the world feel impossibly distant.
The truth struck me as I tore off a piece of bread—not for myself, but for her. My fingers froze mid-motion.
I was feeding her.
In the old ways, this was courtship. The careful selection of the choicest portions. The offering of sustenance from one's own hands. The primal satisfaction of providing, of nourishing. It was instinct written into my bones, the foundation of every bond worth keeping.
And I'd been doing it for days. Ensuring her plate overflowed at every communal meal. Manufacturing excuses to share food, to watch her lips close around what I'd given her.
My hand wavered as I passed her the bread, our fingers colliding in a spark of contact. Did she understand? Could she read the meaning in these gestures, this language older than words?
"This looks incredible," Jordan murmured, accepting the offering. She bit into the bread and her eyes drifted shut, a softsound of pleasure escaping her throat. "God, that's divine. The cheese is unbelievable."
I couldn't look away. "Zuhra's been refining that recipe for years. Goat milk and herbs from the high meadows."
We fell into an easy rhythm, passing food back and forth like a dance we'd practiced a thousand times. When Jordan tasted the boar, the appreciative sound she made sent heat pooling low in my belly and tested every shred of my self-control.
"I noticed everyone hauling in grain sacks today," she said eventually, reaching for dried apple. "Winter preparations?"
I seized on the safer topic like a lifeline. "Building up the stores. Winter doesn't ask permission in these mountains—it takes what it wants."
"That's why the hunting has intensified?"
"Exactly. We smoke and salt the meat, pack the cellars with root vegetables, preserve everything that can be preserved." I gestured vaguely toward the village. "The next few months, everyone contributes. When the snow comes, it doesn't just fall—it conquers. The mountain passes disappear. The roads to Franklin become treacherous—sometimes impassable for weeks at a stretch."
Jordan went still, her fingers absently shredding bread into smaller and smaller pieces. "That sounds incredibly isolating, being cut off like that."
"It's our reality," I said, though the word 'isolating' landed like a stone in my chest. "But we have each other. Through the winter, the whole village becomes one extended family. We gather for festivals, share stories around the fire. There's music, laughter." I paused, searching for the right words. "It's not the loneliness you might imagine."
"It sounds beautiful, actually." Her voice had gone soft, almost wistful. "Everyone depending on each other, working together." She met my eyes, and something in her gaze made my breath catch. "So different from the hospital. Everyone racing against the clock, drowning in stress. Surrounded by people but utterly alone."
"Do you miss it?" The question slipped out unbidden, though part of me dreaded the answer.
She took her time responding, wine cup cradled between her palms. The silence expanded, but it felt full rather than empty. "Parts of it. The work itself—helping people, making a tangible difference. That matters." She shook her head slowly. "But the relentless pace, the bureaucratic games, the crushing pressure... Being here has reminded me what it feels like to actually breathe. To be part of something that makes sense."
"Simpler doesn't mean easier," I said, offering her more boar.
"No," she agreed, accepting it. Our fingers lingered together this time, neither of us rushing to break contact. "But it feels authentic. Connected to what actually matters in life."
The words clawed their way up my throat before I could cage them. I set down my cup, pulse hammering. "You could stay."
Jordan's eyes flew to mine. "What?"
"Here. In the village." The dam had broken, and there was no stopping the flood now. "Morg is brilliant—she's saved more lives than I can count—but her hands shake on cold mornings. Her eyes aren't what they were. We need to think beyond tomorrow."
"Ruka, I—"