The sun had barely risen, mist still curling through the forest as the two of you prepared for the next leg of the journey. You were packing supplies when you noticed her—Mizu, seated with her back half-turned, bandages gripped tightly in her hands.

She was struggling.

Not with the knots, no. With the silence. With the act of having to bind at all. Her thin frame, already bruised from training, bore the weight of more than just fabric — it bore the weight of expectation. Of survival.

She flinched when you stepped closer.

“I’m not here to stare,” you said softly. “I just… saw you fumbling. Thought maybe I could help.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her jaw clenched, and for a moment you thought she’d refuse—snap at you, brush you off like always. But then…

She passed you the bandages without looking.

You knelt behind her, gentle, respectful. The scars along her ribs told stories she never spoke aloud. You didn’t ask.

Instead, your fingers moved carefully, wrapping the cloth with steady hands and quiet focus.

“Tighter?” you asked, your voice low.

“A little,” she muttered. “Not too much.”

Her voice was rough. Embarrassed. But not angry.

When you tied the last knot, you hesitated — hand hovering just behind her shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Mizu,” you said, barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond. Just stood, adjusted her cloak, and turned her face away.

But before she walked off, she murmured:

“…Thanks.”

And that was more than enough.