Chapter 2

The sun hung low over Buena Village, casting long shadows across the fields as Leon hauled a bucket of water from the well. Three years had passed since his arrival, and he'd carved out a quiet niche among the villagers.

His shack was still his own, a humble refuge, but his presence had become a fixture—his striking looks and easy charm earning him both admiration and suspicion.

He'd grown accustomed to the rhythm of this world, though the itch of his old life never fully faded. The Nullifying Grasp remained a mystery, flaring up unpredictably, but he'd learned to hide it, biding his time.

That afternoon, as he set the bucket down by his door, a figure caught his eye. A woman stood near the Greyrat house, her auburn hair tied back in a tight bun, her posture rigid yet graceful. She carried a basket, her movements deliberate as she bent to inspect a patch of wildflowers. Leon recognized her—Lilia, the Greyrat family's maid. He'd seen her before, always silent and composed. She was older than him, perhaps in her late twenties, with a quiet beauty that intrigued him more than the village girls ever had.

Their eyes met briefly as she straightened, and Leon flashed a smile, the kind that had melted hearts back on Earth. Lilia's expression didn't change, but she gave a curt nod before turning away. He watched her go, curiosity piqued. 

The next day, fate—or perhaps his own restless feet—brought them together again. He was chopping wood near the village edge when Lilia approached, her basket empty this time. She stopped a few paces away, her voice cool but direct. "You're Leon, aren't you? The stranger who washed up years ago."

He rested the axe against a stump, wiping sweat from his brow. "That's me. And you're Lilia, the Greyrats' Maid?. What brings you out here?"

She didn't flinch at his tone. "I need herbs from the forest—redroot and silverleaf. The apothecary's stock is low, and Zenith's been unwell. You look idle enough to help."

Leon raised an eyebrow, amused by her bluntness. "Idle, huh? Fair enough. Lead the way."

They set off into the woods bordering Buena Village, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Lilia moved as she pointed out plants to avoid—thorned vines, toxic berries. Leon followed, his eyes drifting from the foliage to her. She wasn't like the women he'd known—there was no coyness, no flirtation, just a quiet intensity that drew him in.

As they knelt to gather silverleaf, their hands brushed. A spark jolted through him—not the Nullifying Grasp, but something warmer, more human. Lilia pulled back quickly, her cheeks faintly pink, though her expression remained stern. "Watch yourself," she muttered, but her voice lacked its usual edge.

He smiled. "Hard not to, with you around."

She didn't reply, but the silence that followed wasn't cold. They worked side by side, filling the basket, and by the time they headed back, a fragile thread of understanding had begun to weave between them.

Over the next few weeks, their encounters grew frequent. Lilia would seek him out for small tasks—fetching water, repairing a fence—always with a practical excuse. Leon didn't mind; he enjoyed the game, the slow unraveling of her guarded shell. She was a woman of few words, but her eyes betrayed her—lingering on him longer than necessary, softening when she thought he wasn't looking.

One night, after another herb-gathering trip, they lingered by a stream. The moon hung heavy overhead, silver light glinting off the water. Lilia sat on a fallen log, her usual stiffness gone, her hair loose for once, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Leon sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.

He shifted closer, his knee brushing hers. "You're different out here," he said, his voice low, teasing. "Not so buttoned-up."

Lilia's breath caught, but she didn't pull away. "It's the forest," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the stream. "It… loosens things."

Leon's hand moved before he could think, resting on her thigh. Her skirt was thin, the fabric worn from years of use, and he felt the heat of her skin beneath it. She tensed, but didn't stop him. Emboldened, he slid his fingers higher, tracing the curve of her leg until they slipped beneath the hem. Her breath hitched, a soft sound that sent a thrill through him.

"Leon…" Her voice was a warning, but it trembled with something else—need, raw and unguarded.

He didn't stop. His fingers found her, warm and yielding, and he moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her gasp. Her hands gripped the log, knuckles whitening, as he worked her, his touch both gentle and commanding. She was a woman starved, her body responding with an urgency that matched his own hunger.

His other hand roamed upward, slipping beneath her blouse to cup her breast. It was firm, heavy in his palm, and he kneaded it with a roughness that drew a low moan from her throat. Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, and for the first time, he saw her fully undone—Lilia, the stoic maid, reduced to a trembling mess under his hands.

"You're beautiful like this," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "Letting go."

She didn't answer, couldn't, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He felt the tension coil in her, then snap, her body shuddering against him as she clutched his arm for support. When it was over, she slumped forward, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her chest heaving.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the stream's gentle rush the only sound. Then she pulled back, her face flushed, her eyes with a mix of shame and satisfaction. "We shouldn't have," she said, but there was no conviction in it.

Leon grinned, wiping his hand on his trousers. "Maybe not. But you needed it. And I'm not sorry."

She straightened her clothes, her composure returning like armor, but the flush in her cheeks lingered.