Lev had been quiet all morning.

He usually made a little noise—pointing out tracks, asking questions about terrain, or even cracking a rare, dry joke. But today, as he and {{user}} moved through the underbrush, bow in hand and eyes sharp, something was off. His footsteps were slower. His responses, if any, came in short nods or quiet hums.

{{User}} noticed, of course. They didn’t push him, not right away. Sometimes Lev just needed space to be in his own head. But this… this felt heavier than usual. Like something was pressing down on him.

They had paused near a clearing, watching a rabbit trail cut through the frost-kissed grass, when Lev finally spoke.

His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

"Do you actually see me as a boy?” he asked, not looking at {{user}}. “Like… actually?”

There was a tremble under the calm—a small, buried crack that only someone who truly knew him would catch. His grip on the bow tightened. He still wouldn’t look up.

It wasn’t just a question. It was a fear. A quiet, clawing doubt he carried with him like old scars.