Page 110 of Bound

“Think of the winter,” Braum urged. “No more wind and rain. Just a hallway. You’ve nothing against hallways, do you?”

She swallowed, thinking of her father’s house. “Braum,” she argued, her voice as firm as she could make it. “I’ve no other to use.” Her cheeks were flaming, and she did not particularly care for him to make her speak of it so plainly, but there it was.

He had the decency to look down at the ground, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ll take breaks. Every hour on the hour. I’ll never even know when you’re there.” She eyed him dubiously, but he smiled at her hopefully. “Every hour, I swear it. Out to the pump for a drink.”

She sighed. Wondered what had happened to her that she could not seem able to argue with him any longer. Was it a weakness on her part, or a softening of a stubbornness that was no longer necessary?

She wished she knew. Could decide. When every night the same questions plagued her, swirling and nagging, until she felt stupid and small and foolish.

And then he’d come again.

And she felt... relieved.

The thoughts settled, for a little while. He didn’t always stay the entire day. He’d other work, he said with a tone of true apology. As if she’d fault him for having trees and patrons that required his attention.

As if she needed all of it.

She didn’t. Really. Every few days was more than enough. Should have been too much, but wasn’t.

“When will I get to win?” she groused, walking back to the house. Changed her mind and went toward the pastures instead.

“You’ll win when you have a home that keeps you warm for all of your needs,” Braum called back. “You’ll see.”

She hummed.

It kept him busy. Kept him coming back. And she’d slip another pouch of coins onto the tray for the noonday meal, simply to annoy him.

???

She thought he would stall. Would make the project drag on as long as he possibly could. But he worked with determination, eyes frequently toward the sky.

A wet winter, he’d said.

It was cold, so far. The days turning bitter as the suns hid longer behind thick clouds.

Even with all his labours, he’d begun to wear thick, knitted things. She almost startled when she’d caught first glimpse of him in his grey cap. It suited him, she supposed, but she’d grown used to him in rolled shirtsleeves and hair she could, well, see.

“You are looking at me strangely,” Braum complained.

Had his sister made them for him? Or maybe his mother. Wanting him to be warm while he spent so much of his days out of doors, regardless of the weather.

A knot formed in her stomach.

Should she be the one to worry over him? To spend her evenings with a hook and a warm fire and yarn from her own grimbles, making sure he’d have enough to keep him warm the following day.

That’s what a mate would do. What family would do.

Socks. Mittens. Hats with flaps to fold down over chilled ears when chores still needed doing, regardless of how hard the wind blew. She knew how to make them. Her mother had taught her, with patient hands that resituated her yarn, who urged Wren to put both project and hook down when she grew frustrated with both of them.

She’d made blankets for Merryweather when she came. Cushions too. But it had been a long while since she’d had to make anything for herself beyond long socks when the heels couldn’t be darned any longer.

If she... did make something. It didn’t have to... mean anything in particular. She was allowed to care if he was cold. And if she would like to see something she’d made around his neck or warming his hands, then that was a private matter.

He was still watching her. Waiting for some kind of answer as to why she was staring at his neck, imagining one of her scarves wrapped about it. Black suited him nicely. Or maybe a near to rust...

“Did your sister make your cap?” she asked. Not that it mattered. Should matter. He was glad he had family that loved him since... since she couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

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