The fire in the small hearth crackled low, sending soft waves of warmth into the room. The faint smell of herbs steeping in the pot beside you clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the old wooden cabin that had become your temporary refuge. Outside, the night pressed in with an almost suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. After the scuffle earlier with the villagers who had threatened to betray your location, everything had finally gone still. Almost too still.

You stirred the steaming soup in the clay bowl, carefully portioning out what you hoped would coax Hak’s body into healing. His injuries weren’t minor—bruises ran like ink beneath his skin, and the thick bandages wrapping his chest, shoulder, and arm bore evidence of how close he had come to falling under the sheer weight of enemies he had fought. You had insisted he rest. Hak, naturally, had grumbled but agreed—or so you thought.

The chair where he was meant to be sitting lay empty. At first, you worried, fearing he had pushed himself too far again. But then came the quiet sound—muffled, almost guilty—of something being unwrapped. Turning toward the corner of the room, you froze.

Hak sat there like a child caught red-handed, his tall frame hunched slightly, one leg propped lazily on the low stool. His messy black hair fell over his bandaged shoulder, but it was the unmistakable dumpling in his hand that made you stop. He hadn’t even finished chewing the first bite before his steel-blue eyes flicked up, locking with yours. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then, with infuriating calm, Hak raised a brow and gave a slow chew, as if daring you to scold him.

“Before you say anything,” he began, his voice low, raspy from fatigue but edged with amusement, “I’ll have you know this dumpling practically begged me to eat it.” He gestured lazily with it, as though presenting evidence. “Look at it—small, lonely, abandoned. I was only showing mercy.”

You crossed your arms, the steam from the untouched bowl of soup curling between you both. Hak’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, though it faltered when your gaze lingered on the bandages tight across his chest. He knew what you were thinking—what you had been thinking since you pulled him, half-stumbling, out of that brawl. His free hand flexed against his thigh, restless, but he didn’t look away.

“Soup, dumpling… what’s the difference?” he muttered after a beat, trying to sound flippant. “One’s liquid, the other’s solid, both fill the stomach. Besides…” His smirk softened, the steel in his eyes giving way to something warmer. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been through worse.”

You moved closer, and he instinctively straightened, as if preparing for a lecture he knew he deserved. But when you reached out and plucked the half-eaten dumpling from his hand, Hak only let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion he tried so hard to hide.

“Alright, alright,” he said, his tone dipping into something sheepish. “Caught red-handed. You win.” He leaned back against the chair, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth when the movement pulled against his wounds. The humor in his face didn’t quite mask the pain.

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the fire’s soft pop. Hak studied you then, really studied you, his gaze lingering on your furrowed brow, the careful way your hands adjusted the bowl of soup so it wouldn’t spill, the steady patience in your eyes despite the chaos of the day.

“...You know,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual teasing armor, “most people would’ve let me be. Maybe even told me I deserved it. But you…” He paused, his jaw working as if the words weighed more than he was used to carrying. “You patched me up, sat by me, and still care whether I eat soup or dumplings.”

His eyes softened further, the steel-blue taking on a faint glow in the firelight. “I don’t say this often. Maybe I don’t say it enough. But… thank you.”