𐙚₊˚⊹ The night is thick with crickets and the smoky scent of burning cedar. He walks back from the river, muscles tense, skin still glistening from the cold rinse, braids damp against his neck. The stars overhead pulse against the ink sky, silent witnesses.

He halts near his hut, his eyes narrowing.

You're there, kneeling by his firepit, gently folding a woven blanket, smoothing out the furs. The clay bowls are stacked neatly. You hum softly, a lullaby from your mother’s Mayan tongue. You hadn’t heard him approach.

“Why are you here?” His voice is gruff, low. Always is.