8. Helsa
HELSA
I hit the ground face-first and stayed there.
Dirt. Wonderful. Incredible dirt.
I kissed it and chuckled to myself.
"You’re lying in the mud," he said.
"I know." I didn't move. "I earned this mud."
He made that sound — the low one, somewhere between a rumble and a sigh, that I was starting to recognise as humans are baffling but I've finally accepted this.
Then I heard him stand up, and a second later he was laughing too.
Actually laughing, this rough, startled sound like he'd surprised himself with it.
We lay there in the mud and laughed like idiots.
We'd made it. Against all available evidence and several active attempts on my life, we had made it.
His hand closed around my wrist.
He pulled me upright like I was a piece of paper.
"You'll need to eat," he said.
"Hello to you too."
"Hello." He was already scanning the shore. "You'll need to eat," he repeated .
I followed him up the beach on legs that barely managed to stay straight, and tried not to stare at his back.
The dude was built. Not in a gym-selfie way. In a this body has solved problems way. The kind of build that only happens when the universe has repeatedly tried to kill you and you have repeatedly declined the offer.
I'd had a front-row seat to the proof.
When that male had exploded from the forest — when I'd had exactly enough time to register Oh no before it was already moving — he'd stepped in front of me.
One hand.
One hand.
He'd caught it by the throat like it was an inconvenience. What followed was fast and decisive and slightly terrifying and I was absolutely going to be thinking about it later when I had privacy.
He’d taken a beating. And he’d done it. For me.
After he’d strangled the beast, I'd made a noise that I'm choosing not to transcribe.
The point was: I believed him now. All those times he'd said I'll keep you safe and I'd mentally logged it under things large males say — I was updating that file. Aggressively.
I almost walked into him when he stopped.
I looked up and forgot about his shoulders entirely.
The ruins came up out of the hillside like they'd always been there.
Ancient pale stone, walls that were mostly standing, arches carved with long vertical lines that might have been language or art or just aliens having a phase.
Vines had staged a full hostile takeover — deep red, thick as cable, roping through every crack and winning.
Fallen slabs lay tumbled in the grass, cushioned in moss.
The whole structure sat tilted slightly forward on its hilltop, like it was leaning in to look at the beach .
Above it the rock got serious. Dark and craggy and hostile-looking, the kind of geology that did not want guests.
The ruins were the friendlier option. Relatively.
"Here," he called.
I found him in an alcove — two walls meeting, a ceiling that had somehow survived, trees pressing in close enough overhead that their canopy formed a roof. The ground inside was dry. Sandy, even.
He looked almost smug about it.
"You're very pleased with yourself," I said.
"It is dry and sheltered. Better than we could have hoped for."
The light was going golden-amber and falling fast. I didn’t think I would ever get used to the days in this place. With three moons, night dominated and came on fast.
I sat down and watched him build a fire with the focused energy of someone who had this countless times before.
He arranged the tinder. Struck the flint. Bent low when the first smoke thread appeared and breathed on it — long, patient, steady.
"Giving the fire a pep talk?" I asked.
"It works. So… maybe."
The flame caught.
He sat back and I swear he looked at it the way people look at a perfectly executed parallel park. Total pride.
Then the warmth hit me and I stopped caring about everything else. It moved up through my hands, my arms, and settled somewhere deep in my chest. I made an undignified sound.
"Better?" he said.
"Do not talk to me. I am having a moment with this fire."
He found the fruit while I had my eyes closed.
When I opened them there was a small pile in front of me — round, dark purple. Like nothing I had ever seen before. But food was food.
I reached for one.
"Wait."
He picked one up. Bit into it. Chewed. Watched the middle distance with the focused expression of someone running internal diagnostics.
I watched his face.
His jaw. Specifically. For… scientific reasons.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking it’s edible.”
“Is it?”
He took another bite and munched away.
Seconds stretched into minutes as he consumed one fruit, then another. And another.
My eyes narrowed and I perched my hands on my hips. “Well? When will we know it’s safe?”
“About two minutes ago.”
I stared at him. “So it’s safe?”
He nodded. “Yes. And delicious.”
“So why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes gleamed. “I prefer to make you watch.”
I hissed through my teeth and bit into the fruit, ready to unload on him when?—
Oh.
Oh.
It was like someone had taken every good flavor that had ever existed, made them work out their differences, and compressed the results into one small piece of produce.
Bright and sharp and then smoky and then, impossibly, sweet, in a way that human fruit has never once managed. I sat there holding it .
"Nectar of the gods," I said. "This can’t be natural. A food scientist must have cried over this."
He tilted his head. "It grows on the lower terrace."
"I want to apologise to every apple I've ever eaten." I took another enormous bite. "They deserved better. They deserved to know this existed."
He watched me eat with an expression that I recognized as fond but confused. It was a good look on him.
We finished every last piece and I felt genuinely, absurdly happy — warm to my bones, full, alive, sitting in ancient alien ruins while the night settled in soft around the fire.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
"Thank you," I said. "For — you know. Everything."
He looked at me across the fire.
"You're welcome," he said. Quiet. Serious in the way he got sometimes when the banter fell away. "Thank you too. For everything."
I looked at the fire instead of him.
It was safer. Significantly safer.