He didn't want another regret on his conscience. "My cabin ain't far, " he said quietly. "You can take the bed. I'll stay by the door. You don't owe me anything.
Just safer than sleeping out here. " She didn't trust him. He could see it clearly in her eyes, but she also couldn't take a single step without grabbing the well stones to keep upright. After several seconds, she gave his smallest nod. Elias saddled her gently behind him, careful not to touch more than necessary.
She stayed rigid, her hands gripping the saddle horn instead of him. During the short ride, he could feel her tension, every breath tight, every movement cautious. He sensed her fear. It wasn't loud or obvious, but it was there in how she leaned away from him despite needing the support. He didn't blame her.
He had met enough people to understand why a woman traveling alone in these lands would expect the worst. His cabin wasn't much. One room, old wooden walls, a small stove, a narrow bed, and a chair he'd repaired too many times. But it was dry and safe. He opened the door and stepped aside.
"You first, " he said, keeping distance. She entered without turning her back to him, scanning every corner as if checking for hidden threats. You can take the bed, he said. I'll stay awake for a while. At lie down.
She stood there stiffly, holding her bag like it was the only thing she trusted. Her breathing was uneven. He didn't ask why. He could guess. I want to fix something warm, Elias said, moving toward the stove slowly so she could see each action.
Water, beans, nothing fancy. She didn't answer. She didn't relax, but she didn't stop him either. While the pot warmed, Elias felt the pressure of the situation. Fear in her eyes, tension in the air, the weight of responsibility settling on him.
He didn't want to fail another person who needed help, even if she didn't ask for it. His inner voice kept repeating the same quiet thought. Just keep things steady. Don't crowd her. Don't talk too much.
Let her breathe. He knew what fear looked like. He had lived with his own version for years. When the food was ready, he placed the bowl on the table and stepped far back so she could approach on her own terms. She sat slowly, never taking her eyes off him.
She ate carefully as if each bite required trust she wasn't ready to give. Elias took the chair by the door, leaning back against it, close enough to intervene if she collapsed far enough not to threaten her space. Neither of them spoke again. The silence was strained but honest. Two people sharing a room, both carrying scars, neither ready to reveal them.
Outside, darkness settled over the land. Inside, they stayed awake longer than they needed to, each waiting to see if the other could be trusted. It was not comfort. It was not closeness. It was the first fragile moment in which neither of them walked away.