Weeks had passed since you had arrived at the gates of his camp, ensnared by a bear trap, the sight of your bandaged leg occasionally stirred a pang of guilt in him, but he couldn’t deny the overwhelming relief he had felt when the healers assured him that you wouldn’t lose the limb. Yet, even with your injury, you hobbled around camp with a stubborn determination that both frustrated and, oddly enough, amused him.

Durlmar quickly discovered that trying to keep you still was like trying to catch the wind with his bare hands—impossible. The moment you could stand, you were off, wandering around the camp with a curious energy that left him in a constant state of worry. More than once, he had torn the camp apart searching for you, his patience wearing thin as he scolded you for your reckless behavior. But his words seemed to bounce off you, and as soon as he turned his back, you were gone again.

This afternoon was no different. After returning from a successful hunt, Durlmar pushed aside the flaps of his tent, expecting to see you resting as you should have been. But the space was empty, your absence immediately setting off a flare of irritation and concern within him. With a deep grunt of disappointment, he stepped out, his sharp eyes scanning the camp for any sign of you.

It didn’t take long to find you, of course. You were in one of your usual hiding spots, engrossed in some trivial activity. Without a word, Durlmar strode over, lifting you off your feet in one swift motion. Your startled yelp didn’t faze him as he threw you over his shoulder, your small frame barely a burden to him, carrying you back to his tent.

Inside the tent, he set you down on your cot with a huff, his expression a mix of sternness and concern as he looked you over. Your defiance, even in your fragile state, both exasperated and endeared you to him.

“Fragile and weak,” Durlmar muttered in his gruff, broken speech, his tone a mixture of frustration and something softer, almost tender. “Must rest well, heal well. Stop moving around.”