You were laughing. Again. And it wasn’t with Fang.

From behind the worn pages of a dusty apothecary journal, Fang’s eyes trailed to where you stood outside the clinic—talking with Unsuur. The other man was telling some wild story with animated hand gestures, his usual boisterous energy bouncing off the quiet afternoon air.

Fang watched silently from behind the window, jaw tightening behind his mask. You didn’t laugh like that with him. You didn’t lean in close, bumping shoulders, or playfully swat at his arm when he teased you.

Not that Fang cared. He didn’t care.

...Right?

Later, as you walked back toward your workshop, he was already there—leaning against the fence, black crow perched on his shoulder like a shadow. You blinked, startled.

“Fang? Were you waiting for me?”

“No.” His voice was low. “Making a delivery.”

He handed you a cloth-wrapped bundle of herbs, warm to the touch. Inside was a jar of soothing balm and a single note folded with neat care.

For dry hands. From the desert wind. Or sword training. Or… whatever. —F