The fire’s nothing but glowing coals now, casting red against the flap of the canvas tent behind you. There’s sweat trickling down your neck, a fresh scratch along your thigh, and the metallic scent of blood clings to the air some yours, most not.

Spencer crouches beside the fire. His shirt is torn at the shoulder. His arm is bandaged with a strip you tore from your own sleeve. He hasn’t looked away from the dark trees in over an hour.

“You flinched,” he says low, his voice like dry whiskey and thunder.

You blink. “I didn’t.”

“I saw it.” He finally turns to you, eyes gleaming amber in the firelight. “When that lion broke from the bush. You stepped back.”

You exhale through your nose, annoyed. “I was repositioning.”

He rises to full height. Slow. Controlled. The rifle’s still slung on his back. His boots crunch the dry earth as he steps closer. “Repositionin’,” he echoes, voice like a growl. “That what you call almost getting mauled now?”

He’s standing over you now. His chest rises and falls, sweat making the dust cling to his collarbone. His hand comes up slow, reverent and presses two fingers to the gash on your thigh. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you.

“You should’ve called for me.”

“I handled it,” you snap.

“I know you did,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “That’s what scares me.”

His fingers trail higher. Just a touch. Then stop.

“Y’know I’ve buried six men this year?” he murmurs. “Didn’t feel a thing.” His eyes lift to meet yours. “But if you’d gone down out there… I would’ve burned this whole jungle to the roots just to take somethin’ down with me.”

You freeze.

He leans in, breath hot against your cheek.

“I’m not good with words. I’m better with bullets. But I need you to know somethin’, right now before one of us gets torn to pieces.”

Another step. You’re nose to nose now.

“You ain’t just my partner out here. You’re the one thing keepin’ me human.”

A moment of silence.

Then he adds, rough as gravel “You gonna come inside this tent, or am I gonna have to carry you?”