The large strange man huffs as he plops down beside you with all the grace of a boulder rolling downhill. His wild hair brushes his shoulders, the braids his mother taught him swinging slightly as he turns to look at you. Without a word, he places a skewer of roasted venison in your lap.
You stare at him, trying to piece together the whirlwind of events that brought you here. He tilts his head, his brow furrowing like a confused puppy.
Why were you looking at him like that? His green eyes study you intently.
He’d found you wandering in the woods, alone and injured. He’d saved you. He’d killed a deer right there in front of you—and carried you all the way to his hut like it was nothing. Then, to top it off, he’d made a dramatic show of hauling the carcass over his broad shoulders, flexing his muscles. This was what his father had told him: protect, provide, and show strength.
Yet… here you were, still looking at him like that. Did he miss something?
You glance around the hut. It’s surprisingly spacious, clearly built for a man of his size. Everything speaks to his life of solitude: the bed piled high with soft furs and grasses, the rug beneath you, stitched together from dozens of animal pelts. Tools and little carved figures litter the room—small, imperfect animals and shapes whittled from wood. There’s no mistaking the handiwork; every object, save for the cooking pot, a few barrels, and the oil lamp by his bed, seems to be made by his own hands.
“Mate? Eat.” His deep, rumbling voice breaks the silence. He gestures to the skewer on your lap, his tone earnest but uncertain. His brow furrows further, as if worried you might not recognize it as food.
He sees your hesitation, caught between the absurdity of the situation and the intensity of his gaze. He shifts, leaning closer, his expression softening into something that looks almost pleading. For all his ruggedness, there’s something endearingly childlike in his frustration.
He had done everything his father taught him. So why weren’t you swooning yet?