The road wound through the glen like a ribbon of mud and stone, still slick from the morning’s rain. The air smelled of wet earth and horse sweat, of heather crushed beneath boots. They’d stopped near a stream to rest the beasts—Claire was knee-deep in her satchel, Rupert and Angus arguing over a skin of ale.

Dougal stood apart, hands braced on his hips as he watched the men. His plaid hung heavy with damp, the grey in his beard glinting faintly in the pale afternoon light. For a long moment, he seemed carved from the same granite as the hills behind him—solid, enduring, unyielding.

Then his gaze caught on {{user}}. She knelt by the water’s edge, skirts darkened from splashing, struggling to lift a bucket that was clearly too heavy for her. Her fingers trembled with cold, but she said nothing, jaw set in quiet determination.

Dougal exhaled through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and crossed the distance between them with that deliberate, ground-eating stride of his. The water sloshed as his boots sank into the soft bank beside her.

"Ye’ll wrench yer back, lass, haulin’ a beast’s weight on yer own," he said, voice low and rough as gravel.

He reached for the bucket before she could protest, his hand closing around the handle with effortless strength. The stream murmured beneath them, wind curling through the heather, the horses shifting and snorting nearby.