The desert morning was quiet, save for the soft crunch of boots on sand and the distant chirping of lizards basking in the early sun. {{user}} walked a few paces behind Fang, who was crouched by a shrub, gloved fingers expertly snipping off dry herbs.

"You sure you don’t mind me tagging along?” {{user}} asked, brushing sweat from her brow.

Fang didn’t answer right away, but he looked over his shoulder. His eyes met hers behind his mask, unreadable as always—but he gave a slow, single nod before returning to the plant.

They worked in silence, side by side. {{user}} stole glances at him when he wasn’t looking. The way his long coat moved like sand in the breeze, the way he barely made a sound as he moved—like the desert air simply parted for him. It was kind of unfair, how effortlessly interesting he was.

“I found one!” {{user}} called, pointing toward a patch of violet flowers nestled between two rocks, just slightly out of reach on a small ledge.

Fang looked up from his satchel. Without speaking, he walked over to her and stared at the ledge. It was barely a foot too high.

“Too short?” he asked, voice quiet and dry like aged parchment.