Veer heard her.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just calmly removed the bowl from the charcoal, slipped it onto a plate, and brought it over with careful steps. He placed the plate down on the table beside her, his eyes still fixed on her face.
"I said don’t move," he muttered, voice low but firm. "You move again, and I swear I’ll tie you to the bed with vines."
His tone was serious, but his eyes had that annoying, teasing glint again. Like he knew she wouldn’t argue back right now. Not when she was this weak.
Kaya narrowed her eyes a little and huffed out a breath—but she didn’t move again.
"Good girl," Veer added with a smug smirk, then turned back to adjust sothing by the fire.
Veer slowly reached out again, lowering his hand with an odd gentleness before lifting Kaya’s leg, his fingers brushing against the edge of her pants. His touch was firm, deliberate—but careful.
The mont Kaya realized what he was about to do, she instinctively tried to kick him.
"Don’t even think about it," she hissed.
But he caught her foot with ease, his grip steady.
"Sweetheart," he said, dragging the word with exaggerated charm, "I know what you’re thinking. But believe —sick girls just aren’t my type."
His voice dripped with mock flirtation, but the glint in his eyes said he ant no harm. Still, Kaya glared at him with enough heat to set fire to the damp room.
He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he tugged her pant leg higher with the sa unbothered calm, revealing her bare calf—mottled with cold, stiff from tension. Without looking at her again, Veer dipped two fingers into the small bowl of oil, now golden and warm with spices, then gently rubbed it along her skin.
The warmth spread like slow honey, seeping into the ache buried deep in her muscles.
Kaya exhaled. "ack..."
She didn’t an to say it out loud.
Veer’s lip curved ever so slightly as he continued, working the oil up her leg with sure, practiced strokes. She could feel the strength in his hands—each motion thoughtful, never too firm, never too light.
After a few monts, he shifted position, guiding her to roll slightly so he could reach her back. His palms glided down her spine, spreading heat and comfort as he worked through the stiffness in her shoulders.
Kaya let herself lt into it for a mont. Just a mont.
Then, she felt him pause. His hand hovered over the curve of her upper thigh.
Don’t.
Before he could make his move, Kaya’s hand shot up and caught his wrist in mid-air.
Their eyes locked. Her voice didn’t need to say it—but her glare did: Touch it, and you’ll lose that hand.
Veer arched a brow, amused. "Damn," he chuckled under his breath. "People really have dirty mind oh god!."
Still, he gently rubbed her throat with warm oil, his hands moving slow and steady. Then he massaged her hands, each finger wrapped in his touch, and Kaya could feel the pain lt away, bit by bit. She didn’t even know when she slipped back into sleep again.
Ti beca a blur.
One day? Two? Three? Maybe even four?
The sa routine went on. Veer made her soup—strange-slling, but warm and healing. Then he massaged her head, her back, her legs. He said nothing. Just did it, like he was used to this.
And every ti, Kaya felt better. Not just a little—too much better. The kind of better that made her chest ache quietly, like her body had forgotten what care even felt like.
On the fourth day, her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. She shifted, slowly. Her arms held her up. Her spine straightened.
That day, Kaya was finally strong enough to sit up... and speak.
As he was cooking the soup again—of course with different vegetables this ti, a different paste too—Kaya looked at him and asked with a serious tone,
"What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a ho to go back to?"
Veer, who had been sitting by the fire, stirring the pot like it was so sacred ritual, paused. He didn’t say anything at first. Then he stood up and walked over to her. Slowly. Deliberately. He crouched down until their eyes t at the sa level.
And then, with an exaggerated sigh, he covered his eyes with the back of his hand and whined dramatically,
"Oh my God... People were right. Won are really too cruel. After using like this—how can you just toss aside like a dirty cloth? This was my first ti too! My innocence... my feelings..."
Kaya blinked.
Silence.
Her face said it all.
Yep. She was officially healthy enough now... healthy enough to slap him back into next week.
Veer saw her deadpan expression and let out an exaggerated sigh. He stepped closer, poked her forehead with his finger, then gently smoothed her eyebrow with a frown of his own.
"Stop frowning," he said in a mock-scolding tone. "If you keep frowning like that, you’ll turn into an old lady faster than I will."
Kaya didn’t blink. If anything, her frown deepened.
Veer studied her face, then gestured toward the door. "Look outside."
Of course, she couldn’t. There was no window in the hut—just solid wood and wind slipping through narrow cracks. But even without looking, the cold seeped in, nipping at their skin and curling under her sleeves like invisible fingers.
"Feel that?" Veer pointed to the slight draft hissing through the door’s edges. "It’s freezing."
Then, with a dramatic flair, he wrapped his hands around each other, rubbing them pitifully as he hunched his shoulders. "If I—a weak little bird—were to go out in that cold... wouldn’t I just die?" He tilted his head, voice trembling in mock despair. "Is that what you want, Kaya? You want to die?"
Kaya looked at him from up and down and put her hand on her chin like she was really thinking seriously.
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