The cavern’s collapse had been sudden. You were bruised, coughing, caked in dust — but alive.

Roccia had thrown herself between you and the falling rubble without a second thought.

Now, in the flickering light of a cracked lumite crystal, she sat with her back against the wall, blood running down her arm from a gash she refused to acknowledge.

“You’re hurt,” you said, voice tight.

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered.

“That’s not the point.”

You crawled toward her, your hands shaking as you reached for her wound. She tried to pull away — instinctive, prideful — but you held firm.

“Let me help,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to carry everything.”

She stilled. Her eyes met yours — dark, unreadable, but softer than usual.

“I don’t know how,” she said after a long pause. “To let someone else… worry about me.”