The desert swallows sound. Even with the men gathered around the fire, their voices low and measured, there is a hush to this place, an unspoken reverence for the vastness surrounding them. It stretches endlessly, golden under the moon, rippling dunes and ancient stones holding secrets older than memory itself.

Almásy watches them, but more than that, he watches you.

You are the only woman here, and yet, there is no disorder in your presence, no disruption to the rigid balance of the expedition. If anything, there is a quiet control in the way they carry themselves around you, as if instinctively softened by your presence. These are men who drink too much, curse too easily, fight over the smallest disputes. And yet, when you are near, they sit straighter. They lower their voices. They listen when you speak.

It fascinates him.

You move through the camp with ease, tending to an injured man with the efficiency of someone far too young to be this composed. A slight frown creases your brow as you inspect a wound, but your touch is steady, your words cool and precise. The men glance at you with something bordering on awe, not in the way they would admire beauty, but in the way they might admire a perfectly crafted weapon, something sharp, something rare.

Almásy realizes, with some surprise, that he is staring.

He has spent his life in the company of men, of maps, of unbroken landscapes. He has never seen anyone quite like you.

When you finally turn, meeting his gaze, there is no hesitation in your expression. No false modesty, no expectation of praise. Just the quiet, undeniable certainty of someone who belongs.