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It’s a strange thing, seeing her like this—unguarded, even if only for a moment. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it.

I clear my throat, shifting where I sit. “Come on,” I say, standing and stretching out my sore muscles. “There’s a stream nearby. We should check it out—get some water, maybe find a rabbit while we’re at it.”

She lifts a brow, still seated. “You just want me to stop calling you nice.”

I grin, cracking my neck. “That obvious?”

She sighs and stands, brushing off her cloak with a faint eye-roll. But I catch it—the glint of something soft in her gaze, something quiet and curious.

And she follows.

I lead the way, weaving through the trees as the sky shifts from deep gold to a dusky purple. The fading light catches in the spaces between the branches, scattering streaks of warmth that contrast the growing coolness in the air.

By the time we reach the stream, the sun has nearly vanished beyond the horizon. The water moves slow and steady, reflecting the dying light in shifting ripples that glint against the smooth stones beneath the surface. It’s shallow, clear, the kind of place that feels untouched, hidden away from the rest of the world.

Aria steps forward first, crouching at the edge. She dips her fingers into the water, testing the water, then cups a handful and presses it to her face. Droplets cling to her skin, catching in the loose curls of her hair, shimmering like molten copper in the twilight.

I turn my attention to my own tasks. I unfasten my waterskin, dunking it into the stream, watching as the cool rush fills it to the brim. The water is crisp against my fingers, biting at my skin as I bring some to my arms, rubbing away the sweat and grime from the day.

Movement draws my gaze back to her.

She’s pulling at the makeshift bandage on her shoulder, unwinding the cloth with gentle fingers. My breath catches.

The wound—the one that had been angry and bleeding not a day ago—is gone.

Well, not gone, but close. Her skin is pink and new, still healing, but there’s no tear left. No ripped flesh. No exposed muscle. Just smooth, damp skin and a quiet flex of muscle as she tests the movement in her shoulder. I knew vampires mended fast, but I’ve never seen it before.

She tilts her head slightly, muttering, “Still stiff.”

I swallow, my voice rough when I manage, “You heal fast.”

She glances up, offering a wry smile. “Perks of vampirism, I suppose.”

I should look away. Give her space. But I don’t.

It’s not just the healing that has me staring—it’s something else. The way she moves, so careful, so deliberate, like she isn’t used to tending to herself.

“You didn’t always have to do this, did you?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Her smile falters. Her fingers brush across her shoulder, tracing the edge of new skin like she’s trying to memorize it.

“No,” she says finally, voice quiet. “I didn’t.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t have to. The silence that follows says more than the words could—of a life spent being tended to, controlled, watched. Cared for, maybe, but not kindly. Not freely.

I don’t press.

Instead, I stand, tightening the cap on my waterskin. “Come on,” I say, holding out a hand. “We should head back before it gets too dark.”

She hesitates just long enough that I almost repeat myself—but then her fingers slide into mine.

Cool. Firm.

She lets me pull her up, and for a moment, I don’t let go.

Neither does she.

Then, like a shift in wind, she pulls away—delicate, not rushed. She wipes her palms on her skirts and looks at me, something unreadable in her expression.