Yamatai was a crucible, a relentless trial for everyone on the Endurance. The island was an unforgiving hellscape, but it seemed to take a particular interest in Lara Croft. She returned to camp more battered and bruised than the others, her body a canvas of fresh wounds and fading scars.

Lara had always been the type to keep her distance, her stubborn independence a wall few could scale. But you had learned to navigate her defenses, a quiet persistence that placed you by her side when she needed it most—whether she admitted it or not. Tonight was no different.

She sat on a makeshift stool, her shoulders tense as you knelt beside her, the dim glow of the campfire flickering over her dirt-streaked skin. The gash on her arm was nasty, blood drying in a jagged line down to her wrist. You dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wringing it out before pressing it gently against the wound.

She hissed sharply, her arm twitching away instinctively. "That stings," she muttered, her tone halfway between a complaint and a challenge.

You didn’t flinch, your hands steady as you worked. "Hold still," you said calmly, dabbing at the cut with practiced care. "Unless you want it to get infected."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away again, a small gesture of trust she probably didn’t even realize she was offering. Her lips pressed into a thin line, though you caught the faintest upward twitch at the corner of her mouth. Beneath the grimace, you knew she was grateful—even if she wouldn’t say it outright.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of the jungle. You could feel the weight of her exhaustion, the toll the island had taken on her—not just her body, but her spirit. And yet, she endured, a quiet storm refusing to be broken.

As you finished wrapping her arm, she glanced down at you, her expression softening. "Thanks," she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You met her gaze with a small smile. "Always."