But inside, something broke open, something he had buried for years. And for the first time since she arrived, he realized he no longer feared that she might leave. He feared instead what it might mean if she chose to stay. The morning broke clear after a night of restless silence. Klay had hardly slept.
He lay awake long after Nia's words drifted into the dark. "You are not like the others. They had settled deep inside him, stirring something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years." By dawn, his chest was tight with the weight of it. He rose quietly, pulling on his boots, moving through the motions of work. Though his mind wasn't steady, Nia was already awake, crouched by the fire, feeding in small sticks.
She glanced up as he passed, her dark eyes catching his, then darting away quickly. She wrapped the blanket closer around her shoulders, though the air inside wasn't so cold anymore. Clay noticed the faint color in her cheeks, a sign she was no longer starving, no longer so hollow. The sight eased something in him, but it also drew his gaze longer than it should have. He forced himself outside.
The day stretched into labor. Clay worked the corral fence, replacing broken rails with new cedar he had hauled weeks before. His muscles achd. Sweat clung to his shirt, and each swing of the hammer steadied him. Work was the one thing he could trust to keep his mind from running wild.
Yet even then, his thoughts kept circling back to her. How she had begun to move differently in the cabin, less like a guest and more like someone finding her place. When he returned at midday, the cabin smelled of beans and pork stew. Nia had cooked again, and this time she set two plates without waiting for him to ask. They ate in silence, the fire crackling between them, but the air was charged.
Clay felt her eyes on him once or twice, quick and uncertain, and when he looked up, she turned away fast. After the meal, Nia surprised her by speaking. Before I was taken, I had a husband. He die when soldiers come. My people scattered.
Her voice was flat, but the words carried weight. I thought I would die, too. Clay listened, his fork still in his hand. He didn't push her for more, but the fact she had offered this much at all told him something had shifted. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
She looked at him across the table, her eyes sharp, but not hostile. "You lost, too." He gave a short nod. Wife and boy, fever took them. The words hung heavy in the small room. Two losses sitting side by side.
Neither spoke for a long while. That night, the wind picked up again, rattling the shutters. Clay sat by the fire, mending a rope while Nia stretched out on the blanket. She shifted once, then again, finally pulling herself up to sit. "Too cold," she said softly, almost embarrassed.