The heater.
It takes a second for it to register, but when it does, relief washes over me.
The room isn’t as cold anymore.
I turn my head and see Ezra still asleep beside me, his face half-buried in the pillow.
He looks… younger like this.
Less guarded.
The lines of worry etched into his face are softer now, almost nonexistent.
He’s exhausted. He’sbeenexhausted, hasn’t he?
I don’t know why that realization hits me so hard, but it does.
He’s done so much—he was thrown into an impossible situation, made decisions he probably didn’t want to make, dealt with things no one should have to deal with.
Since we’ve been here, he’s worked nonstop keeping things running or fixing things.
And for what?
To protect me?
To keep me safe?
I don’t understand him, not completely, but I’m starting to and I do know this: he hasn’t stopped moving since we got here. Maybe it’s time someone looked out for him, too.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, careful not to wake him, and grab the cleanest clothes I can find.
The hot water is a luxury I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed until I step into the shower. The crust of the last few days washes off me, the heat soaking into my skin, and for once since coming here, I feel human again.
By the time I’m out, I feel lighter, physically and emotionally. I towel my hair dry and head into the kitchen, deciding to do something I haven’t done in ages: cook.
It’s a small thing, but it feels right. A way to care for him, the way he’s been taking care of me.
I rinse the rice in a dented metal pot, swirling the grains with my fingers as the water turns cloudy. It takes a few rinses before it runs mostly clear, and then I set it on the stovetop with just enough water to let it steam. There’s no measuring, just instinct and the hope that I don’t screw it up.
While the rice simmers, I turn my attention to the beans. They’ve been soaking since last night, and when I pour the water off, the scent is earthy, familiar. I scrape them into a pan with a little water, the boiling filling the quiet space around me. A few pinches of salt, a dash of something vaguely spicy from one of the few salvaged seasoning jars, and they start to take on warmth, softening with the heat.
It’s a slow process, one that forces me to focus, to keep my hands busy while my mind refuses to calm.
I’d been so sure of who Ezra was when we got here. Dangerous. Cold. Calculating. But now… now I’m not so sure.
I stir the beans, watching them break down slightly, thickening into something that looks like an actual meal.
I can’t stop thinking about everything he told me last night—the things he’s endured, the things he’s done because he had no choice.
He’s still dangerous—there’s no denying that.
But he’s also something else.
Someone else.
Someone who’s seen too much, done too much, but still refuses to let it break him.
Someone who’s risked everything to protect me.
