Shrugging, I tell him the truth. “It’s home.”
He accepts without comment, retrieving what he needs and tending to his own mount with the same deliberate care. The soft sounds of brushing and shifting hooves fill the space between us. The horses relax under our attention, heads lowering, breaths evening out.
Occasionally, I’ll watch him work, taking note of his strong hands that can also be gentle. When he borrows the salve, he uses it sparingly, before returning it to its place.
I’m a bit taken aback by how rare this is. A man in my space who doesn’t seek to take, to demand, to test my defenses. He doesn’t fit the categories I’ve learned to guard against. He takes up space, yes—but with the same measured restraint he brings to everything else.
He’s also naturally quiet, and I find myself easing into that silence with him.
The realization is somewhat concerning, but it’s there all the same.
Once Enoch has been provided food and water, I step back and wait for Orán to do the same.
“I don’t know about you,” I say while leaning against the wood railing, “but I’m dying to clean up and rest.” He reaches to set the brush aside, but I lift a hand. “Take your time. There’s no rush. When you’re done, come inside. I’ll leave soap and towels on the table.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“There’s a lake that way.” I point at the north. “Through the trees about fifty yards. It’s where I bathe and do laundry. There’s a line out back to hang and dry clothes. Seeing that this might be the only clothes you have, you’re welcome to check the spare room. There might be something left from the previous owner that fits.”
I glance pointedly at his human form, his clothing in no better shape than mine—caked with blood, dirt, sweat, and days of hard travel.
He smirks. “Doubt it. But I’ll look.”
I leave him then, retreating into the house to collect myself.
In my room, I strip quickly, dropping my cloak and ruined clothes in a heap. I kick them into a corner to deal with later, then wrap a towel around myself and gather what I’ll need—soap, water, and another towel. I set the extra one on the table for him.
Food comes next.
Crackers. Jerky. Simple things.
Eating may not be something the Horsemen do, but it’s an old custom I approve of, so I offer what I have readily available.
As I spend the next few minutes eating my fill, I run through the plan again—every angle, every risk.
Still turning it over in my mind, I step back through the front doorway carrying a bag full of supplies to wash up and—walk straight into a wall.
Or not a wall so much as a body of firm muscle that refuses to yield.
Limbs tangle. Skin brushes skin. An awkward, breath-stealing dance follows—one misstep after another—until we manage to pull ourselves apart.
“Sorry, I—uh—didn’t see you there,” I say as heat blooms in places I’d rather not acknowledge.
“No… don’t apologize. It was my fault.”
He lifts his hand as if to steady me, but it veers away at the last second. He ends up cupping the back of his neck and shifting in place as his guarded gaze drags down my frame.
It pauses for longer than my liking midway, as if frozen in place where my hand is currently clutching the towel.
A brief flash burns behind his irises, there and gone in the time it takes for him to lift his chin.
I tilt my head, studying him more closely now—cataloging the tells as they surface. His left hand flexes. Tension gathers in his shoulders. His pupils dilate, swallowing color as our stares war with each other.
Not wholly human, I remind myself. But not unaffected either.
Believing this is my opening, I commit to it.
By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound. Come to me—forget yourself.
