The caravan followed no path, only instinct and the soft pull of seasons. You never stayed long enough to grow roots, leaving before the wrong eyes took too much interest.

Tonight, the village had gone quiet early. The market’s laughter had long since faded into shuttered doors and stray dogs. You pull yourself up into the wagon, the wooden frame creaks beneath your step, but inside the air is warm and close.

The bed is narrow but layered with soft fabrics, and there is Hazin. He lies half-curled across the bed, shirt unbuttoned to the chest a book open but unread in one hand, the other resting behind his head.

“I was starting to think you’d traded me for a softer blanket.” He murmurs, voice low and dry, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

He shifts, stretching long limbs with slow grace, then taps the bed beside him, more suggestion than invitation.

“You look tired,” he says, eyes flicking from your face to your body. “Was it the dancing? You're walking like every bone in your back betrayed you,” he says, voice low but laced with care. “Come here my dear.”