They took something from you. What you're asking for now, it's not just the warm. It's not just to know. Do you understand me? She stared at him, confused.
This, he said, his grip on her shoulders gentle but absolute. This between a man and a woman. It's meant to be more than just heat. It's supposed to be a choice. It's supposed to be about about tenderness, about safety.
Not just safety from a storm, but safety with that person. He let out a breath. How could he explain this? "You deserve more than just heat." Tyen, you deserve a choice.
A real one. Not one you make in the dark, during a storm because you're scared or because you're grateful I'm not them. It has to be more. I will not. I will not be just another man who takes from you.
She was silent. He could feel the resistance in her, the incomprehension. She was offering the only thing she had, and he was refusing it. He felt her pull away. She slid off the cot.
She stood in the middle of the room for a moment, a silhouette against the fading storm. He could not read her expression. He had heard her. He was sure of it. He had rejected her.
Without a word, she went back to her room and quietly closed the door. He did not hear the latch. Daniel lay awake until dawn, his body aching with attention that was both desire and shame. He had done the right thing. He had protected her even from herself.
But as the first gray light filled the cabin, he felt more alone than ever. He must have drifted off because he woke to the smell of coffee and smoke. He sat up, his back stiff. The storm was gone. The cabin was quiet.
He dreaded facing her. He expected her to be gone, to have run, or worse, to be back as she was when she first arrived. A silent, weary ghost. He got up and splashed cold water on his face from the basin. He opened the cabin door.
Tyen was outside, feeding the chickens a handful of cracked corn. The morning air was washed clean, and the sun was bright. She seemed calm, her movements deliberate. He was about to speak, to apologize, to try and explain again. When she turned, he stopped.
Her hair, it was not in the simple loose braid she usually wore. The style of a young unmarried girl. It was different. It was parted, pulled back tight, and woven into two intricate braids, which were then looped and tied up at the back of her head with a strip of his own cured leather. It was a style that was severe, complex, and elegant.