Chapter 15
Over the next few days, I developed a system.
It was elegant, efficient, and specifically designed to minimize unnecessary interaction.
I would enter the room, change Rhaevan's bandages, check his wounds, answer only medically relevant questions, and leave before he could start asking things I had no interest in answering.
Simple. Effective. Necessary.
Unfortunately, the system had one major flaw.
Rhaevan.
For someone who barely spoke, he had an exceptional talent for making his presence deeply inconvenient.
The first problem was that he was almost always awake, watching me.
I had never met someone capable of staring with such consistency and commitment.
By the third day, I finally snapped.
"Do you have a hobby," I asked while changing the dressing on his shoulder, "or is staring at me your full-time occupation?"
His voice remained calm.
"Currently, it is my only available form of entertainment."
I tightened the bandage a little more than necessary.
He did not even flinch.
Annoying.
The second problem was that he noticed things.
Far too many things.
"You burned your hand."
I looked down at the faint red mark near my wrist from the kitchen.
"Congratulations," I said dryly. "Your eyesight works."
"You should treat it."
"I am treating it."
"How?"
"By ignoring it."
Silence followed.
Then, "That does not sound medically sound."
I glanced at him.
"You recovered from near-fatal injuries in less than a week. I do not think either of us is qualified to discuss medical realism."
That earned me the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
Then there was the deeply irritating issue of him noticing my habits.
I had not even realized I muttered to myself until he pointed it out.
I was arranging fresh bandages one morning, mentally cataloguing every incompetence committed in the healing room.
"Why is this folded like this? Who arranged these herbs? Why is nothing where it belongs? Does organization offend people here?"
"You talk to yourself often."
I did not look at him.
"I find intelligent conversation difficult to obtain elsewhere."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, with complete seriousness, "Ouch, that was insulting."
"Good," I said. "Your comprehension skills are improving."
A small smile touched his lips at my words.
And there they were again.
Those ridiculous dimples.
Somehow, I had developed the deeply unfortunate habit of noticing them every time he smiled during our conversations.
I hated that.
And I fully intended to unlearn it.
So I doubled down on my original strategy.
Distance and professional detachment.
No personal questions.
No unnecessary conversation.
No emotional involvement.
It worked beautifully until it didn't.
One afternoon, I was rewrapping the bandage around his arm when he spoke.
"Why did you disappear?"
My hands paused for half a second.
Just half a second.
Then I continued wrapping the cloth as though nothing had happened.
I kept my voice even.
"That is not your business."
He remained quiet.
I expected another question.
Another attempt or another quiet push.
Instead, he simply said, "Alright."
He did not insist, nor pressurize or demand answers.
He just accepted it.
I hated how much that bothered me.
Because I had been prepared to defend myself. I had not been prepared for him to respect the boundary. It would have been much easier if he had argued.
Naturally, my brain decided that the best use of the next few days was replaying that conversation at the most inconvenient possible moments.
A few days later, I came downstairs expecting the usual atmosphere of the inn: mild chaos, misplaced utensils, at least one customer complaining about something trivial, and Miss Ann threatening violence in the kitchen.
Instead, the entire place was... quiet.
I stopped halfway down the stairs and narrowed my eyes.
Something was wrong.
What fresh nonsense is this?
Then I walked into the kitchen and found the cause.
Rhaevan, Of course.
He was helping Miss Ann, annoyingly well.
He was chopping vegetables with terrifying precision, carrying flour sacks as though they weighed nothing, and somehow repairing the loose kitchen shelf while simultaneously listening to Miss Ann explain inventory.
I stared.
Had he somehow bullied the laws of physics into submission?
Then I turned to Miss Ann.
"Why is he in the kitchen?"
She did not even look up.
"He offered to help."
"Why?"
This time she glanced at me.
"Because helpful people exist, child."
I folded my arms.
"Ah. So we are inventing personalities now."
Miss Ann ignored me and continued stirring the pot.
I looked back at Rhaevan.
The vegetables caught my attention first.
Every carrot slice was identical. Geometrically precise.
I felt irrationally offended.
"Why are the carrots all the exact same size?"
Rhaevan looked at them, then at me.
"Should they not be?"
"No. You're ruining several opinions I had about you."
His lips twitched.
Oh wonderful. He was amused.
Arrogant prick.
Over the next hour, things somehow got worse.
Miss Ann kept praising him.
"Rhaevan cleaned the storage room."
I looked up.
"We had a storage room?"
She gave me a flat look, then rolled her eyes.
Ten minutes later-
"Rhaevan fixed the broken chair."
I frowned.
"We had a broken chair?"
"It has been broken for three months."
I scoffed.
Then one of the regular customers-a sweet old woman who had known me for years-smiled warmly at him and said, "Such a polite young man."
Traitor. That was betrayal.
I had known that woman for four years. Four years.
And she switched sides in three days.
I watched Rhaevan carefully, waiting for arrogance, smugness, or at least some visible satisfaction.
Nothing.
He did not brag.
He did not show off.
He simply helped quietly, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.
That was somehow more irritating than arrogance would have been.
By evening, I had decided I thoroughly disliked this entire situation.
More importantly, I had reached one very necessary conclusion.
I needed to get that menace of a man out of this inn as soon as possible.