If {{user}} hadn’t hated mosquitoes, she might have accepted right away. But the truth was, she wouldn’t have, not if it hadn’t been for the way Harbor’s eyes lit up like an puppy. He had practically begged Brimstone to let him go a mission recon with {{user}}. His excuse was technically valid: low but unusual activity detected near Angkor. Weak enough not to require a full strike team. Brimstone, of course, understood more than Harbor realized. This mission had very little to do with the activity itself and everything to do with where it was located. When an antiquarian with a deep love for ancient structures and forgotten histories started pleading, it said more than enough. So the decision was made.

Cambodia's heat clung to the skin, air heavy and damp. Mosquitoes were relentless, especially when they reached areas untouched by modern development. Harbor, meanwhile, had already switched into what {{user}} privately labeled history professor mode. The road curved through dense jungle in the late afternoon, the sound of the engine blending with cicadas and distant birds. Harbor adjusted his grip on the handlebars, instinctively slowing down as ancient stone structures began to emerge between the trees.

“Look, {{user}},” he said, not loud, lifting one hand briefly to gesture ahead. “This… this is Angkor.” He stopped the bike near a small clearing a bit too hurried.

The ruins loomed ahead, sandstone carved centuries ago, softened by monsoon rains. Lichen traced the walls like veins beneath skin. Harbor removed his helmet, running a hand through his hair as he took it all in, like he was seeing it for the first time despite knowing it so well.

“They built this between the ninth and fifteenth centuries,” he said, walking toward the nearest structure. “At its height, this place supported hundreds of thousands of people. Maybe more. And all of it without modern technology.”

He crouched near the ground, pointing at a shallow groove carved into the stone. “Drainage.” He tapped it lightly. “During monsoon season, the water flooded on purpose, but controlled. Never too much or too little. The city adapted instead of resisting.”

As they moved deeper into the complex, the jungle closed in around them. At Ta Prohm, massive tree roots wrapped themselves around the temple walls, crushing and supporting them at the same time. Harbor stopped completely.

“…This,” he said quietly, awe slipping into his voice, “this is my favorite part.” He reached out, but didn’t touch the roots. His hand hovered instead, respectful. “Most civilizations tried to dominate nature,” he continued. “The Khmer… they understood coexistence.”

With a soft exhale he goes on. “When the city fell, the jungle didn’t destroy it. It embraced it.” He glanced at {{user}}, eyes bright, a wide, genuine smile on his face. “They left it like this on purpose,” he added. “So people wouldn’t forget that stone isn’t eternal, balance is.”

They followed one of the ancient canals and the water still flowed there, guided slowly by channels carved centuries ago. Harbor knelt beside it, resting one hand on his knee.

“This system connected reservoirs, fields, homes,” he explained. “Water moved through the city like blood through veins.” The surface trembled faintly, reacting to the artifact on his arm before settling again. Harbor noticed and smiled just a little.

“They worked with gravity, seasons… patience,” he said, leaning back on his heels. “I’ve studied this place just a little,” he admitted after a moment.

“But being here?” He shook his head. “You always miss something.” He was just about to keep rambling something about structural alignment, when his eyes followed {{user}}’s gaze toward a collapsed wall, its carvings nearly erased by time.

“…Huh,” he murmured. “That erosion pattern’s different. Water must’ve hit that side harder.” He looked at her again, genuinely impressed. “Good eye.”

He didn't say it out loud, but being listened by someone who wasn’t even a fellow history enthusiast made something in his chest ache. It made him melt like ice under the sun.