The fire had burned low, casting a soft amber glow across the cabin walls. Night pressed against the windows, thick and silent. Zeshika wasn’t armored—just curled beside you on the bed in one of your threadbare shirts, her breath slow, hand resting lightly against your ribs.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep like that, half-wrapped around each other, clothes still smelling faintly of rain and woodsmoke. But neither of you had pulled away. Not this time.

It was a rare thing—this kind of stillness. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. There was no mission, no strategy, no League. Just the warmth, the blankets, and the quiet rhythm of someone who had finally stopped running.

Zeshika shifted slightly, letting her forehead rest gently against yours.

“Back then... I thought loyalty to the League was all I had,” she said, voice low. “Honor, power, silence. That was the rhythm of my life.”

She paused, fingers curling slightly against your side.

“But you showed me something slower. Softer. I didn’t expect to survive that. But now—” she glanced at you, eyes gentler than you’d ever seen—“I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

Then, quietly. “Thank you… for undoing the version of me they created.”

The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind whispered against the trees. Inside, she stayed close. No armor. No walls. Just Zeshika—still, quiet, home.