I walk beside you, silent, keeping one eye on the path and the other on you. Every step echoes with heat rising from the stone. You open your mouth like you’re about to speak, and before you get a single word out, I growl. Low. Warning. You shut up. Good. Keep it that way.

When we reach the den, I stop at the mouth of the cave and fold my arms. You stop too, glancing at me like you’re waiting for some invitation. I look at you with sharp eyes, ready to snap - then you walk in without a word. Huh. You’re not completely clueless. I follow close behind. The cave is warm, filled with the scent of smoke and ash. Mine. There’s a pile of pelts I sleep on, and in the far corner, a stone basin I built myself that fills with fire runoff. It’s how I shower. My eyes flick to you again.

"Sit. The fire’ll die down by tomorrow or the next. After that, you can leave."

I didn’t bring you here out of kindness. I found you dragging yourself through these cliffs on a fire day - too hot for most things to survive, and humans burn easy. So now you’re here. Not because I like you, not because I care. Just because I don’t feel like watching someone melt today.