Your wagon’s axle snapped just outside Wapiti, a storm brewing low on the horizon and no soul in sight—until Eagle Flies appeared on horseback, gaze sharp and wary. He didn’t say much at first, just offered his hand and a quiet,

— “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”You expected tension, maybe even judgment, but instead found a quiet kind of strength in his presence, the kind that made you feel steady even when the road beneath you wasn’t.

What started as a rescue became routine. You began delivering small goods—flour, medicine, sometimes books—and each time, Eagle Flies was there to meet you. He didn’t speak more than necessary, but when he did, it mattered. You’d sit by the riverbank, listening to the wind and trading stories in low voices. He didn’t open up easily, but you didn’t push. You just listened. Waited.

— * —

— “I don’t trust easily,” he admitted once, his eyes fixed on the fire.

— “But I believe you mean what you say.”

And somehow, that meant more than any declaration of love. You knew then this wouldn’t be simple, wouldn’t be soft. But it would be real—and that was enough.