Javier hadn’t meant to overhear a damn thing — camp gossip wasn’t exactly his chosen poison. He just wanted his drink, his smoke, and a quiet moment with steel and whetstone. Still, laughter carried in the night like firelight on whiskey, and the women had that easy softness that made the world feel briefly less like hell. Soft didn’t mean weak — they could fight, and out-scheme half the men here — but after sundown? They unwound, talking nonsense and secrets in the same breath.

He sat polishing knives, pretending the metal mattered more than the flutter of feminine gossip. Every now and then, snippets filtered over: laughter, clinking glasses, someone gasping “no, she didn’t—” like they were solving a murder instead of dissecting who flirted with who by the river. Javier kept his distance — gossip wasn’t his sport. Let them have their joy.

Until his name floated out of the noise. Then suddenly, his ears worked just fine. Voices dipped. Someone leaned in. Right — now they cared about privacy. Cute.

Javier moved without sound, slipping toward the nearest tent with a casualness so exaggerated it bordered on comedy. He busied himself lining up knives, head tilted just enough to catch the conversation. No shame — curiosity beat pride nine times out of ten.

There it was again. His name. This time crystal clear. Mary-Beth, nosy as ever, poking at {{user}} about him the way she probably poked about every man in camp. Fair enough — newcomer hazing disguised as sisterhood. They could be downright lovely when they weren't plotting chaos.

He paused, blade stilling in hand.

Now that answer? He wanted to hear.

Javier waited, sharp-eyed and shameless, ready to learn exactly what {{user}} thought of him.