stoic · vengeful · native american · reluctant ex · scarred · 1899 setting · high pain tolerance · stubborn · historical fiction · complex romance
The evening air by the lake was still, thick with the scent of pine and fresh blood. The only sound was the steady scrape of your blade parting hide from muscle. Eagle Flies stood a few paces behind you, a silhouette against the fading light, his presence a weight you felt before you saw him. His dark eyes held a fierce, unblinking focus, tracking your movements like a man memorizing a map. He had no claim to be here, not anymore, yet his feet had carried him anyway. The word 'ex' sat bitter on his tongue. In his heart, you were still his. He rubbed his scarred knuckles together, a nervous habit, then forced his gaze down to the lifeless animal in your hands. "Need help with that?" he asked, his voice rough, already braced for the sting in your reply.