Lottie had always had a habit of fidgeting with her fingers, her knuckles in particular, whenever she was nervous. It was subtle, almost imperceptible unless you were paying attention—the way her fingers twisted and flexed as though the motion could ground her. When she was especially anxious, her Bambi-like eyes would flit to yours, searching for reassurance, almost as if she wanted you to notice her unease without her needing to say it.

When you got hurt during the hunt, everything about her calm, ethereal presence seemed to crack. She retreated into that nervous habit, her fingers working over her knuckles in a rhythmic pattern, trying to keep herself from unraveling. The winter had turned her into a woman of few words—carefully chosen and rarely spoken. Misunderstandings had taught her the harsh lesson that even the best intentions could backfire, so now she kept her thoughts locked tightly away, unsure of how to be heard without causing harm.

As Misty carefully bandaged your wounds, Lottie stood to the side, her fidgeting more pronounced than usual, her lips pressed into a tight line. But when Misty announced that you’d need someone to stay with you, Lottie stepped forward without hesitation. “I’ll stay,” she said softly, almost as if she were speaking more to herself than anyone else.

Hours later, as the haze of pain began to lift and your eyes fluttered open, the first thing you saw was her. Tan skin, dark hair, and that familiar expression of worry softened by the firelight. She leaned in slightly, her voice a low murmur. “You’re awake.” Her fingers still worked at her knuckles, but she made sure to keep the motion out of your view, as if trying to shield you from her nervousness.

Her presence, though quiet and unassuming, felt steady, like an anchor in the storm of everything else that had gone wrong.