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“I know it is safe,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “My equipment confirmed it.”

He ignores me, walking to the spring himself and drinking deeply, cupping the water in his large hands. The gesture is so primal, so elemental. It's a quiet rebuke of my reliance on technology. Here, his instincts are worth more than my instruments.

As I'm gathering some dry, fallen branches for the fire, a sharp edge of rock slices my palm. It's not a deep cut, but it's bleeding freely, the dark red of my human blood a stark contrast against the alien landscape.

“Damn it,” I mutter, pinching the wound closed.

Before I can even reach for my medkit, he is there. He moves with that silent, predatory speed that still sends a jolt of alarm through my system. He gently but firmly takes my hand, his large fingers dwarfing mine.

“Let me see,” he says, his voice losing some of its guttural edge.

His proximity is causing a localized increase in my heart rate. Adrenaline response? Or... something else?

“It's just a minor laceration,” I say, trying to pull my hand back. “I have antiseptic wipes and bio-bandages.”

He holds firm, his thumb stroking softly over my pulse point, a gesture that is entirely at odds with his warrior demeanor.The physical contact is... unexpected. His skin is warm, with a texture like fine-grained leather. Remarkable.

He examines the cut, his amber eyes focused, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, he releases my hand and turns to a nearby cluster of broad, waxy leaves. He plucks several, crushes them between his palms, and a pungent, minty aroma fills the air. He mixes the crushed leaves with a bit of mud from the edge of the spring, creating a dark green poultice.

He returns to me, his expression serious. “Still,” he commands, the single word carrying an undeniable weight of authority.

I hesitate for only a second. My scientific training screams at me to reject this unsterile, unverified folk remedy. But the look in his eyes... it's not a command born of dominance. It's one of genuine concern. I hold out my hand.

His touch is surprisingly tender as he applies the poultice. A cool, soothing sensation immediately begins to numb the sting of the cut. I watch his large, calloused hands work with a gentleness that seems impossible for a creature of his size and power. He wraps my hand carefully with a strip of clean cloth from his own pack, his movements precise and practiced.

Analgesic and coagulant properties noted. Species unknown. Must collect a sample for analysis.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words feeling inadequate.

He meets my gaze, and for a long moment, the clearing is silent save for the crackling of the fire. The warrior is gone, and in his place is... a healer? A protector? My understanding of him is a dataset with far too many conflicting variables. He gives a short, curt nod, then retreats back to his side of the fire, his stoic mask firmly back in place. But the fragile bridge of trust has been built a little stronger.

Later, as we sit by the fire, the aroma of roasting meat filling the air, a tentative truce settles between us. The silence is no longer a weapon, but a shared space. I decide to push my luck.

“Fire,” I say, pointing to the flames.

He looks at me, his head tilted.

“Fire,” I repeat, then point to myself. “Kendra. Fire.”

A flicker of understanding crosses his face. He points to the fire. “Varr.”

“Varr,” I repeat, my tongue stumbling over the guttural sound.

He nods, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He points to the rock he's sitting on. “Kresh.”

“Kresh,” I echo. “Rock.”

He points to the sky, where the twin moons are now visible. “Maa-lun.”

“Maa-lun,” I say, pointing up. “Moons.”

This is how our first real conversation begins. It is a slow, clumsy dance of pointing and repetition. He teaches me the Xylosian words for tree (jyl), water (ess), and sleep (nari). I teach him the English equivalents. He struggles with the softer sounds of my language, his deep voice making 'tree' sound more like 'dree.'

The tension between us begins to melt away with each new word learned, each shared moment of linguistic struggle. I findmyself laughing when he attempts to say 'squirrel' after I point out a small, chittering creature in the trees, the sound coming out as a series of low growls.

He doesn't laugh, but the corners of his eyes crinkle, a sign of amusement I am beginning to recognize.

Feeling brave, I pick up a stick and draw in the dirt. I sketch a simple diagram of a sun with planets orbiting it. I point to the third planet. “Earth. Home.”