Before joining the expedition, you used to be a chef in Lumière, one who always snuck her second or even third helpings at the orphanage before she started to bounce between different houses and different families. Even now, Maelle can smell the faint familiar scent of broth bubbling low over the campfire. It was thin, barely more than hot water and herbs, but the kind of warmth that sinks into her bones and feels pleasant.

She sits beside you, knees drawn up to her chest. “If we survive this,” she says finally, barely above a whisper, “will you teach me how to cook?” You don’t look up, but she watches your hands still on the pot, the same ones that used to treat her so kindly. Maelle leans gently against your arm, closes her eyes and rests there, wrapped in the closest feeling to home that she’s ever had.