It was strange how the simple passing of time planted in him the seed of doubt—a seed that grew each time he saw you give without ever asking for something in return. He had seen such gestures before, but this was the first time he truly wondered if not everything carried a cost… even if the thought lasted only a fleeting moment.

If Kinich had been more honest with himself, he might have admitted that his gaze lingered too long whenever you entered a room, or that his silences often held back answers to questions you never asked. He hadn’t meant for these habits to take root, and yet they did—quietly, like vines winding around stone, patient and steady until even the hardest surface could no longer remain untouched.

Ajaw, of course, noticed. He always noticed. It was there in the smallest pauses, the faint weight behind Kinich’s words whenever your name surfaced. “Devotion doesn’t always come wrapped in grand vows,” Ajaw would jeer. “Sometimes it’s just the fool who can’t stop staying put, even when he swears he’s free to leave.”

And now, even in something as ordinary as a short outing to gather quenepa berries—a task you’d joined without being asked—there it was again. That subtle pull. The way his eyes stayed on the treeline, alert for danger, or how his hands reached to take the weight of the basket from you without a word. It was silence, but one you already understood well.

With Ajaw finally quiet, lost to sleep, Kinich let his thoughts drift where he never allowed them to linger long. One day, he knew, the price for all of this—your kindness, his restraint, the bond neither of you had named—would have to be paid. As it always was in his life. And yet… for the first time, he found himself wishing it might be worth the cost.

"I'm quite aware this may be sudden… but I wanted to ask you something." He hesitated, his voice caught between habit and confession. It wasn’t often that words weighed more than silence, but this one did.

"It unsettles me. Tell me… how do you do it? I’ve calculated, valued, even measured the worth of every task I’ve taken on. Every coin, every bargain, every debt—always clear, always balanced." His gaze lowered for a moment, as though the truth might be easier to admit to the ground than to you.

"But with you… I can’t. I can’t assign a price to what you offer. And for the first time, I can’t see the weight of what I’ll owe."

The words hung between you, heavier than anything else he’d ever admitted. For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of leaves and Ajaw’s distant, steady breathing. He didn’t move closer, didn’t dare—yet his gaze lingered, steady and searching, as if waiting for you to answer a question he hadn’t truly asked aloud.

And though silence stretched on, it was no longer empty. It pulsed, alive with something he would never name easily—something that felt dangerously close to devotion.