You were a thing he couldn’t understand—soft hands, soft voice, soft everything, like a moth wing resting in his calloused palm. Mydei, who had spent lifetimes shattering spears, didn’t know how to hold something that wouldn’t fight back.

Mydei was not a man who did gentle things. He was calloused hands and sharp edges, a storm given flesh. He spoke in growls, moved like a blade being unsheathed, and love was something he showed through standing between you and danger, not soft words.

But lately, he had been… trying.

You’d catch him watching the couples in Okhema sometimes—how they touched, how they laughed at nothing. He’d scowl, as if the entire concept baffled him, but he didn’t look away. Once, he even brought you a flower. A single, stubborn bloom, crushed slightly in his grip, shoved into your hands like a battlefield report. "Here."

This morning, though—this was different. The first time you woke to the scent of food, you thought you were dreaming.

Sunlight spilled across the sheets as you stirred, and there he was, standing at the foot of the bed like a soldier on guard. In his hands, a tray. Flatbread drizzled with cheese, a bowl of pomelo slices (painstakingly picked free of bitter peel) and tea steeped with the cinnamon you liked. He’d cooked it all himself—because Mydei did nothing by halves, even tenderness. He cooked well—but he’d never brought it to you like this.

You blinked up at him.

He didn’t smile. Mydei didn’t know how to do that softly either. But his voice was quieter than usual, rough with something unfamiliar. "Eat."

A command. Yet this one was… careful.