After what felt like an eternity in the sun-dappled forest, Natsu pushed open the creaky door of his cabin.
He stepped inside.
For a brief moment, the interior felt… still.
As if the space itself had yet to settle around him.
Then the familiar warmth returned.
His arms were laden with the day's catch—five plump milkfish strung neatly on a line. In his other hand, a wooden bucket brimmed with fresh river water, sloshing gently with each step.
He set the bucket beside the entrance with a soft thud. Cool droplets clung to the rim and slid down the wood.
Natsu paused.
The cabin was quiet.
But it was no longer empty.
That difference lingered.
He moved across the polished oak floor with measured steps and stopped at the bedroom doorway. His gaze shifted inward, calm but attentive.
Both women were still asleep.
The one he had treated lay on the bed, her breathing slow and steady. The tension that once held her body rigid had softened, though her hood still concealed most of her face.
Beside her, the other woman remained slumped in a wooden chair, her posture awkward, her body folded in exhaustion.
Natsu lingered.
A quiet mix of thoughts surfaced—pity, caution… and something else.
Unwelcome.
Protective.
He scratched the back of his head.
Whatever their situation was, it had already crossed into his life.
Turning away, he headed for the kitchen.
The cabin soon filled with the quiet rhythm of preparation.
Steel met flesh with clean, practiced precision as Natsu worked through the fish. The scent of herbs and woodsmoke rose gradually, settling into the space as rice simmered over the hearth.
Ginger.
Scallions.
Simple ingredients, handled with familiarity.
Time passed without notice.
Steam gathered beneath the rafters as the dish came together—slow, steady, deliberate.
Before long, two bowls of congee rested on a wooden tray.
Plain.
Warm.
Enough.
Natsu lifted the tray and carried it back toward the bedroom. He set it gently on the nearby table as thin ribbons of steam curled upward into the afternoon light.
He glanced once more at the two women.
Still asleep.
Good.
Without a word, he stepped outside again.
The farm greeted him with life.
Chickens scratched at the earth, clucking restlessly. Pigs shifted through straw, while the cows stood quietly in their pen, tails flicking lazily.
Beyond them, neat rows of crops stretched outward—golden wheat swaying beside vegetables and herbs thriving under the steady warmth of the sun.
Natsu picked up his hoe.
And worked.
The rhythm came easily.
Soil turned.
Feed scattered.
Time moved.
The earlier disturbance—the blood, the cries, the strangers—faded into the background beneath the repetition of labor.
For a while, things felt… normal.
Inside the cabin, the woman stirred.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
The ceiling above her came into view—wooden beams, rough and worn, their patterns unfamiliar. Her vision struggled to focus.
She tried to sit up.
Pain didn't come.
Weakness did.
It spread through her limbs, draining what little strength she had, forcing her back onto the bed with a quiet gasp.
Her breathing quickened.
Her gaze moved.
The room was simple.
Unfamiliar.
Safe—but she didn't know why.
Her eyes shifted to the side.
The other woman.
Still there.
Still breathing.
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
Fragments surfaced—running, blood, pain, darkness.
Then—
A sound.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Rhythmic.
Outside.
Natsu paused mid-swing.
The motion stopped.
The silence that followed felt different.
He exhaled quietly and set the hoe aside.
Something had changed.
He stepped back into the cabin and stopped at the bedroom doorway.
The woman was awake.
She stared at the ceiling, her expression distant but focused—like someone piecing together a broken memory.
As she shifted slightly, her hood slipped.
Natsu blinked.
Just once.
Her hair spilled across the pillow—soft brown, touched with faint red under the light. Her features were delicate, composed even in exhaustion, her golden-amber eyes turning toward him.
For a moment—
He said nothing.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Glad to see you're awake."
His voice was steady, though a fraction rougher than before.
"You wouldn't have lasted much longer. That wound was bad."
Her gaze fixed on him.
Alert.
Cautious.
"Where… are we?" she asked.
Her voice was soft, strained.
"You're in my cabin," Natsu replied, stepping closer—but not too close.
"You were bleeding out near the river. I brought you here."
A small pause.
"I couldn't just leave you."
Her hand moved instinctively to her side.
She froze.
No wound.
No scar.
Only dried blood.
Her breathing hitched.
"What…?"
Her fingers pressed against her skin.
Nothing.
"How is this possible…?"
Her eyes snapped back to him.
"Did you do this?"
Natsu nodded once.
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then, more firmly—
"But I'd appreciate it if you didn't dig into it."
His gaze held hers—not threatening.
Just… final.
"Some things are better left alone."
Silence stretched between them.
Questions lingered in her eyes.
But she held them back.
"…Alright," she said.
Natsu gave a small nod.
"You lost a lot of blood," he continued. "That's why you feel like that."
He picked up one of the bowls and placed it carefully in her hands.
Warmth spread through her fingers.
"Eat."
She looked down.
Steam rose.
The scent reached her.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Her eyes widened.
"…Congee?"
The word slipped out, unguarded.
She looked up at him, disbelief breaking through her exhaustion.
"How do you know this?"
A beat.
"It shouldn't exist here."
Natsu caught that.
But his expression didn't change.
"Like I said," he replied calmly, "questions later."
A faint hint of something—amusement, maybe—touched his voice.
"For now, eat."
He gestured slightly toward the other woman.
"And wake her up when you can."
She hesitated.
Studying him.
Trying to understand.
Failing.
"Wait," she said.
He paused.
"What's your name?"
A small smile formed.
"I'm Natsu."
A brief pause.
"That should be enough for now."
He tilted his head slightly.
"And you?"
"Tanya."
The answer came before she could think.
Natsu nodded.
"Tanya, huh."
His smile softened—just a little.
"Eat first. Talk later."
Then he turned and left the room.
Silence returned.
Tanya sat there, unmoving.
Then she lifted the spoon.
The first taste hit her tongue.
Warm.
Familiar.
Real.
Her vision blurred.
Tears fell before she noticed.
She swallowed slowly.
And for the first time since everything fell apart—
She felt it.
Not safety.
Not yet.
But something close.
Enough to hold onto.