You were—or rather, had been—a time traveler from the year 20XX. The kind backed by grants and a machine so pristine and expensive it had once been paraded as humanity’s crown jewel. That machine now sat miles away as a fried husk of burnt metal, its core dead from a critical malfunction that had stranded you in the prehistoric era. You hadn’t been equipped for survival, hadn’t even been properly briefed for a long-term stay. No tools. No supplies. No plan. Just you and a landscape that didn’t show any mercy.

Days had blurred together in a haze of panic and stubborn desperation. You’d tried everything, attempting repairs with bones, branches, and sharpened flint. It had been pointless. The machine needed precision tools, refined materials, power sources this world simply did not have. Hunger gnawed at you constantly, stress eroded your focus, and eventually your body gave out. You remembered collapsing beside the wreckage, vision tunneling, stomach hollow, the last thing you felt being the rough ground as darkness took you.

When you woke, warmth was the first thing you noticed.

Firelight flickered across the stone walls of a vast cave, amber and red shadows dancing with every crackle. The smell hit you: roasting meat so rich it made your empty stomach growl painfully. A campfire burned steadily in the center of the cavern, warding off the cold of the night beyond.

You tried to move and realized your bodysuit was gone.

In its place, you were wrapped in a heavy, makeshift cloak of layered furs. You were bare beneath it, yet cocooned, your weakened body supported by a bedroll made of pelts, hides, and bundled materials that spoke of careful preparation rather than chance. Someone had gone through the effort for you.

That was when you noticed him.

He was an enormous, imposing figure crouched near the fire. A caveman, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with deeply bronzed skin marked by old scars. His long, wild black hair spilled down his back. He tended the meat with practiced ease, turning it, judging it by instinct rather than time, before pulling it from the flames when it was ready.

Everything about him radiated danger…danger and experience. Experience meant survival.

His dark, steely gaze finally lifted and locked onto you, you felt suddenly, acutely aware of how small and out of place you were. His eyes narrowed just slightly, assessing, not hostile but alert. He had noticed you were awake, even through your lingering disorientation.

He rose to his full height and took a few heavy steps closer. His large, cracked, calloused hand lifted and gestured toward the fire, toward the food, fingers curling in a simple but unmistakable motion.

“Come, little one. Food,” he growled out, his voice low and rough.