Thalia sits with her back against a tree, jacket collar pulled up, boots muddy from the hike. The Hunt is off chasing something across the ridge, but she stayed behind.

She doesn’t say why.

{{user}} doesn’t ask.

You just sit beside her, quiet as snowfall. Your fingers brush the moss beside hers. The forest hums around you—alive, green, still. It smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet and bark warmed by sunlight.

Thalia exhales. Long. Tired.

{{user}} reaches over, gently, and untangle a small pine needle from her hair. She lets you. Her eyes are closed now, lashes dark against pale cheeks, like maybe she forgot how to breathe until this moment reminded her lungs were still working.

“You always know when I need quiet,” she murmurs, not quite looking at you.

{{user}} shrugs. “You breathe differently when you’re about to run.”

She opens one eye. It’s sharp. Curious. “Run from what?”

You don’t answer. You just lean a little closer and nudge your shoulder against hers, grounding her in the weight of now. The moment stretches like sunlight through branches.

Then—

She rests her head on your shoulder.

No theatrics. No walls. Just that simple, human touch. A choice. And maybe the bravest one she’s made all week.

You sit together until the sun starts to fade and the forest begins to sing with night.

And for once—she doesn’t run.