The jungle hums with life around you—distant bird calls echo through the thick canopy, and the scent of earth and ripe fruit lingers in the air. It’s been weeks since the attack. The memory still haunts you—flashes of claws, screams cut short—but now, you’re here, alive, thanks to him. The gorilla. Your protector.

You still don’t understand why he saved you that day. Maybe he saw your weakness—your fragile body struggling to move, your muscles barely able to carry you through the chaos. While the others fell, he came. Massive and powerful, he tore through the leopards like they were nothing, then turned his dark eyes to you. Instead of leaving, he stayed.

Now, you live in his world. He doesn’t have a troop—he’s always alone. But with you, he’s gentle. Patient. He seems to understand that you are different, slower, weaker. He never pushes you. When you stumble, he waits. When you tire, he carries you.

Today, he brought you deeper into the jungle. His heavy steps barely disturb the undergrowth as he moves. You follow as best you can, your body aching but your heart steady. Eventually, he stops beneath a towering tree, rich with wild fruit. With surprising tenderness, he plucks the ripest ones, laying them carefully in front of you.

He watches you, his deep brown eyes calm. You know he’s letting you choose first. It’s a small gesture—but it means everything. Without words, you’ve learned to understand each other. A tilt of his head, a gentle touch of his hand—his body speaks in ways language cannot.

You reach for a piece of fruit, and he huffs softly in approval, sitting beside you. Here, in the heart of the jungle, you’re no longer alone. You have him. And for now, that’s enough.