Chapter Nine "What the Heart Remembers"

The first time Callum touched her, really touched her, it wasn't planned. It wasn't some grand romantic moment, bathed in candlelight. It was simple. And that's what made it matter.

Eleanor had been gathering wild herbs behind the cottage when she slipped on loose stone, landing hard against the earth. She hissed through her teeth, brushing dirt from her palms, wincing at the sting.

And suddenly, he was there.Kneeling in front of her.His hands careful but sure as he took hers in his, inspecting the scrapes.

"You'll live," he said quietly, though there was a faint crease between his brows.

She watched him as he cleaned her skin with water from his flask, tore a strip of cloth from his own sleeve to wrap around her hand. His fingers were rough, callused—but they moved as though she was something fragile.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He didn't answer at first. Then his gaze lifted to hers, steady and searching. "You don't need to thank me."

But she did. Because nobody had ever looked at her like that before. Like she mattered because of who she was—not because of what she could offer or represent.

Later, as they sat by the fire, their hands touched again. Deliberately this time. His fingers slid between hers, warm and sure. And she let them stay.

Neither of them spoke.They didn't need to.