Chapter 10 #2
She wasn’t wrong. The dwelling was small even for her size, and he had learned quickly that moving carelessly meant knocking into equipment and walls. Even with his wings folded tight against his back, they added bulk that made the space feel even more cramped.
“Then I will not sleep,” he said. “I will keep watch. You rest.”
Her jaw tightened in the stubborn expression he was learning to recognize. “That’s ridiculous. You need rest too.”
“I need less than you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.” He held her gaze. “My kind… we can go long. Without sleep, without food. It is how we were…” The words slipped away from him, leaving only impressions. Designed. Made. Shaped for endurance.
“How you were what?”
He shook his head. “I do not remember. Only that I know this truth. I can watch while you rest.”
They stared at each other in a contest of wills that he sensed could last until dawn.
She was stubborn, this small female. Fierce in her independence, and determined to neither give nor take more than she must. But she was also exhausted.
He could see it in the shadows beneath her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands that she tried to hide, the way she kept catching herself before her head could droop.
“We could share,” he said quietly. “As before. There is room enough for two, if we are…” He searched for the word. “Close.”
The red he was beginning to find immensely appealing immediately flooded her face, and he watched her struggle between practicality and whatever fear or embarrassment was holding her back.
“That’s not… I can’t just…”
“You slept well before.” He kept his voice calm and non-threatening.
“I was exhausted—”
“You are exhausted now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her mouth worked for a moment, searching for an answer that wouldn’t come. He waited, patient as the ice he had emerged from, giving her time to find her way through whatever maze her thoughts had become.
“Because,” she finally said, and then stopped.
“Because you are afraid,” he finished for her. Not an accusation, but an observation. “Not of me. Of… something else.”
Her eyes met his, and he saw the truth there, raw and unguarded for just a moment before she shuttered it away.
She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of the way she had felt in his arms. Afraid of the safety, the warmth, and the inexplicable rightness of it.
Afraid of needing something she had spent years convincing herself she didn’t want.
He understood. The same fear lived in him, coiled around his heart like a serpent. To want was to risk. To need was to open oneself to loss. And he had lost so much already…
“Jaz.” He said her name softly, and watched her eyes refocus on him. “I will not take what is not given. If you say no, I will sleep here.” He touched the floor. “I will not… push.”
Push. That was the right word. He could feel it.
She was quiet for a long moment.
“What if I don’t know what I want to give?” she finally asked softly.
“Then give nothing,” he said. “Only rest. I ask nothing else.”
Another silence, longer this time. He watched her wrestle with herself, watched the exhaustion war against the fear and the practicality she prized so highly struggle to find an argument against simple shared warmth.
“Fine.” The word came out rough, almost angry. “Fine. But only because that chair really will break if you try to sleep in it, and I don’t have the supplies to fix another piece of equipment.”
He didn’t smile, although he wanted to. “Understood.”
“And you keep your hands—claws—whatever—to yourself.”
“I will hold you. As before. Nothing more.”
“I mean it, Adjar. No…”
She trailed off, apparently unable to articulate what she was forbidding. He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
“No what?”
“Just—no.” She stood abruptly, moving towards the bunk with jerky, agitated steps. “Come on. Before I change my mind.”
He rose carefully, mindful of his wings and the low ceiling, and followed her to the narrow bed. She was already climbing in, pressing herself against the wall to make room, her back to the space he would occupy.
The position was already familiar. He lowered himself onto the bunk, feeling the frame creak beneath his weight, and carefully arranged his wings so they wouldn’t crowd her. His body curled naturally around hers, his larger frame enveloping her smaller one and his tail settling over her ankles.
She was tense. Every muscle in her body seemed to be wound tight, and he could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat even through the layers of fabric covering her.
“Breathe,” he murmured against her hair. “I will not harm you.”
“I know.” The words were barely a whisper. “That’s not… I know.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, and felt her breath catch. For a moment she was rigid in his arms, but then, slowly, degree by degree, the tension began to drain from her body.
Satisfaction filled him, warm and fierce and utterly unexpected in its intensity. She was in his arms. She was allowing herself to rest and to trust him with her safety. After everything she had told him about walls and solitude and the fear of needing… She was here with him.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I will keep watch.”
A small sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh escaped her. “You said that before. What exactly are you watching for?”
“Everything.” He tightened his arm slightly, feeling the soft curve of her waist beneath his palm. “Nothing will harm you while I hold you. This I vow.”
She was quiet for a moment. “That’s a big promise to make,” she said quietly.
“It is truth.”
Another silence. Her breathing was slowing, her body relaxing incrementally against his. He could feel the moment she began to slip towards sleep in the softening of her muscles and the way her weight settled more fully against him.
“Adjar?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you care? About keeping me safe.” Her voice was thick with approaching sleep. “You don’t even know me.”
I know enough.
But the words that came out were different—pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere he hadn’t known existed until this moment.
“You found me in the ice,” he said. “You brought me back. You gave me warmth and food and…” He searched for the word. “A reason to wake.”
“I would have done that for anyone—”
“No.” He cut her off gently. “You would not. You have spent years alone because others are… difficult. Easier to avoid them.”
She stiffened slightly. “I never said—”
“You did not need to say. I heard.” He pressed his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of her. “I understand because I am the same. Solitude is safer. But it is also…” He searched for the word. “Poison. Slow poison.”
Her breath shuddered out. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“You saved me from the cold.” His arm tightened around her. “Let me save you from the same.”
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.
“I don’t know how to let anyone save me.”
“Then learn.” He closed his eyes, letting his body relax into the narrow space of the bunk. “We will learn together.”
She didn’t answer, but her hand slowly covered his where it rested on her waist. Her fingers threaded between his, warm and small and surprisingly strong. She fell asleep holding his hand.
He didn’t sleep. He had spoken truthfully that his kind could endure long stretches without rest, though he didn’t remember precisely why or how he knew this.
Instead, he lay in the darkness with her in his arms and let himself feel.
Her warmth. Her weight. The steady rhythm of her breathing, so different from the silence of the ice.
The small twitches and movements of sleep—a dream, perhaps, or simply the body’s restless adjustments.
Mine.
The thought was primal and possessive in a way that should have alarmed him. Keepers did not take; they preserved. They protected what belonged to others, and held memories in trust for those who would come after.
But there was no one coming after. The others were gone. He was the last. And this female, this fierce small creature who fought and bled and refused to yield—
She was someone worth protecting. Someone worth keeping. Not taking, but guarding. I will guard her. From the cold and the danger and the loneliness she tries to pretend she does not feel.
He felt the vow settle into his chest, as certain as the ice.
She murmured something in her sleep and pressed closer against him. Her hand tightened around his. He closed his eyes and let her warmth fill all the hollow places in his chest.