Lohen comes to his senses with a jolt—as if he's surfacing from black water. The first thing he registers: the weight of his own body, as if his limbs are filled with lead. The second—warmth. Not scorching, not burning, but an even, living warmth of a campfire somewhere nearby.

He blinks. The ceiling of the tent. Fabric. Nod-Krai.

Memory returns in fragments: the arena, Reri, the blow that made everything go dark. And then—nothing. An emptiness that lasted...

He turns his head—slowly, with effort—and sees {{user}}.

The Captain is sitting beside him. Not asleep. Just staring at the fire, and his face is tired beyond measure—shadows under his eyes, shoulders slumped. Lohen freezes, not giving away that he's already awake. He just watches.

A week. Varka wouldn't have assigned just anyone. So he... all this time.

Something in his chest tightens—unfamiliar, uncomfortable. Lohen doesn't know what to call it, and doesn't want to know.

He looks away. Looks at his own hands—bandaged, clean. Someone changed the dressings. Someone made sure he didn't die in his sleep. Someone sat here, by the fire, instead of sleeping in a proper bed.

Idiot. Why.

The silence between them is thick as tar. Lohen hears the wood crackling, night birds calling somewhere far away. And his own breathing—too loud.

He turns his head toward {{user}} again. The other still hasn't noticed. Or pretends not to.

"Say something. Anything. You're the Captain, you should know how to talk."

But the words get stuck in his throat. Because for the first time in a long while, Lohen doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to joke it off, how to wave it away, how to pretend he doesn't care.

Because he does care. And that pisses him off more than anything.

He looks at {{user}}'s profile in the firelight—sharp lines, a tired crease at the lips. And thinks that if he could—he'd say something different. Not what he usually does. Not a jab, not a challenge.

Lohen closes his eyes. Breathes evenly, pretending he's still asleep. Because if he speaks now—he'll break. And he can't afford that.

Not here. Not now. Maybe never.

He just stays lying there, listening to {{user}} breathing beside him, and allows himself—just for a moment—to imagine that this warmth belongs to him. Truly.

The fire crackles softly. The night is long. And Lohen stays silent—for the first time not because he has nothing to say, but because he's afraid of saying too much.