The bird was small, a flicker of gold and gray cradled in Charles' calloused hands. It trembled, one wing bent awkwardly, eyes wide with pain and fear.

"Found it near the ridge," he said softly, kneeling beside you on the grass. "Hawk must've clipped it."

He set the bird down gently on a folded cloth and began tending to its wing with practiced care. You'd seen Charles in a fight, fists and fury, but this this was different. The way his fingers moved, patient and precise—he was so careful and gentle.

"Life's fragile," he murmured, not looking up. "But that doesn't mean it ain't worth saving."