Private Tales Long Days of Rest

The house was filled with the warm, savory scent of fresh breads, roasted vegetables and seared meat. Neith stood near the window, her sleeves rolled up, apron slightly flour-dusted, though she hadn't stirred the pot in some time now. Her arms were wrapped securely around Mar who purred, content in the crook of her elbow.

But Neith’s gaze was sharp, fixed, staring out through the slightly fogged glass. Her brows were faintly drawn, lips parted just enough to show the tight hold she had on her breath. Another cluster of soldiers passed, just beyond the trees,impossible to ignore.

Cassidy’s voice startled her.

She flinched visibly, her fingers tightening against Mar’s fur. Her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest as if it'd tried to leap up into her throat. Mar let out a mild mew of protest but quickly soothed again, rubbing her face against Neith’s jaw in gentle reassurance.

"Hm? Oh… Eighty-four..." she replied quietly, staring toward the road.

Yes. She had counted. Neith always counted things when she was anxious—knots in wood, raindrops on glass, heartbeats between breaths. Today, it had been horses. Helmets. Swords.

“I don’t like it,” she murmured, shifting Mar so she could gently scratch behind her ears. “Something feels… off.”

She finally turned to look at Cass, her expression guarded, and she let out a breath that she hadn’t meant to hold. Her gaze lingered on him, searching his face now for reassurance—or confirmation of her dread. Mar wriggled out of her grasp and landed with a soft thump on the floor, tail swishing once before she padded toward the back room, as if even the cat had sensed the tension rising in the air.

“What if this peace wasn’t meant to last? What if they're looking for you. Or for me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper as she wrapped her arms around her ribs. "I'm not ready to let it go, Cass.."

Neith leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around her, burying her face in the cool dampness of his chest like it could hide her from the world outside the window. The scent of river water and fallen leaves clung to his skin, grounding her better than any deep breath ever could. Her hands slid instinctively around his waist, clutching at the fabric of his jacket as if she needed something solid to hold onto.

His voice rumbled low above her head and she closed her eyes, listening, feeling the gentle drag of his fingers through her hair, letting his calm settle over her. She didn’t need to speak just yet. She let him talk.

But when he pulled back, lacing their fingers together, that aching part of her, the one that always expected happiness to be temporary, clenched a little tighter. She held onto him, her thumb brushing softly over his knuckles, as she looked up into his face.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know you’re right. I know we’ve both lived through worse. And I know I should trust the quiet we’ve earned but…” Her gaze flicked back to the window, to the road beyond it. Her brows pulled slightly together, and her voice grew smaller. It had become too quiet for a while, too peaceful and perfect. The kind of stillness that came before something broke.

She swallowed, her throat tight, and she met his eyes then.. "I'm sorry. I'm just being paranoid.." her head shook and she sighed. "We've run out of flour. I can go into town and pick some up.."