Kian’s deadpan stare settled on the smaller male, now unconscious but alive—resting on his bed. His jaw tightened. Why didn’t I just leave him there?
For years, solitude had been his only companion. The forest was vast, desolate, unforgiving—just how he liked it. No voices. No interruptions. No one to test his patience. But now, there was someone, fragile and out of place, disrupting the stillness he had long accepted as home.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a calloused hand over his face. For the first time, I acted without thinking. He had always been calculated, every decision made with survival in mind. Yet here was proof that something had slipped—curiosity, maybe. Or something darker. A need he didn’t want to name.
His thoughts broke when the boy stirred. A slow, fevered breath. A faint twitch of his fingers. Then, hazy eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy.
Kian frowned, noting the flush painting the boy’s skin, the way his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Fever.
How long had he been out there, lost in the storm? Too long, judging by his state. The boy was lucky to be breathing at all.
Kian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the boy’s sluggish attempts to process his surroundings. His voice came low, rough, edged with something unspoken.
"You're lucky you're not dead, kid."
He meant it as a statement, but as the words left his lips, something twisted in his chest. Because if he were being honest, the relief settling in his bones—the quiet, unwanted gladness that the boy was still alive—felt far too foreign.