A chill wind blew through the mountains as Sovann woke with a heavy head and aching limbs. The simple fishing contest from the day before had left him more tired than he realized. Now, wrapped in blankets by the fire, he felt small and vulnerable—a rare sight for the quiet mountain man.
Elira noticed immediately. Her violet eyes filled with concern as she knelt beside him.
"You… sick," she said softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. Her touch was gentle, almost like a whisper.
Sovann managed a weak smile. "I guess… even mountains need rest."
Elira's worry deepened, and she moved swiftly to gather herbs from her bag—strange leaves and flowers she had never seen before but somehow knew would help. Carefully, she brewed a tea, the warm scent filling the cabin.
She helped him drink, her fingers lingering lightly on his wrist. Sovann felt warmth not just from the tea, but from her presence—comforting and steady.
Days passed slowly. Elira sat by his side, tending the fire, speaking softly in her melodic tongue, and humming tunes Sovann didn't understand but found soothing. She even tried to teach him a few words from her language, laughing gently when he stumbled.
One evening, as the stars twinkled outside, Sovann reached for her hand.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She smiled, her cheeks glowing softly in the firelight. "No… thank you. You… my home."
He squeezed her hand gently, heart swelling with something deeper than friendship—a quiet promise, born in the softest of moments.