The shadows in the shack lengthened as the sun set. Cato lit the small oil lamp on the table, casting a flickering yellow glow over the cramped space. He went through his routine-checking her splints, applying a thin layer of fresh ointment to her healing wounds, and taking the empty bowl she had finished.

Eve watched him move, her mind sharper than it had been in days. Now that the fog of fever had lifted, the reality of her situation was impossible to ignore. She scanned the tiny room. The four walls were close enough that she could almost touch both sides if she stretched out her arms. There was a hearth, a table, a stool, and the bed she was lying on.

The bed. The only bed in the shack.

A cold knot formed in her stomach. She had been unconscious for five days. Where had he been sleeping?

Cato finished his tasks. He pulled his rough linen shirt over his head, tossing it over the back of the stool. He stood there in a thin, sleeveless undershirt that did nothing to hide the thick cords of muscle across his back and shoulders. He walked toward the bed.

Eve's breath caught. "Wait."

He didn't wait. He lifted the edge of the blanket and sat down on the narrow strip of mattress beside her legs. The wooden frame groaned under his weight. He swung his legs up and lay down on his back, leaving barely a foot of space between them.

The mattress dipped toward him, and Eve felt herself slide slightly in his direction. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

"What are you doing? Get out!" she snapped, pushing herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pull in her healing ribs.

Cato didn't even look at her. He folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, his breathing instantly slowing into the rhythm of sleep.

"Are you deaf? I said get off this bed! Now!" Her voice rose, trembling with anger and panic. "Don't you dare touch me!"

He didn't move. He didn't flinch. He might as well have been a stone statue.

Eve was shaking. She wanted to shove him off, but her arms were still weak, and her legs were bound. She was trapped in a bed with a man she didn't know, a man who had barely spoken ten words to her. She felt incredibly vulnerable, her skin prickling with awareness of every inch of his large body next to hers.

"This is where I sleep," she yelled, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. It was a ridiculous claim-she was the intruder here-but she was desperate.

The words seemed to hang in the air. Cato opened his eyes. He turned his head on the pillow and looked at her. The lamplight caught his irises, making them glow with an intense, quiet focus. There was no lust in his gaze, no anger, no mockery. It was just a flat, unyielding statement of fact. This is the only bed. Deal with it.

Eve stared back, her chest heaving. The fight drained out of her as quickly as it had flared. He was right, and she knew it. This was his shack. His roof. His food in her stomach. She had no right to demand anything.

Humiliation, thick and bitter, rose in her throat. She turned her head away, presenting him with her back, and stared at the rough wooden wall. She wouldn't sleep. She would stay awake all night and make sure he didn't try anything.

But the bed was warm, and her body was still exhausted from the healing. The steady sound of his breathing was annoyingly soothing. Hours passed. He didn't move an inch. He didn't roll over. He didn't reach for her. He just slept.

The next night, he did the exact same thing. And the night after that. Eve's protests devolved from screaming, to angry muttering, to sullen silence. She lay there, stiff as a board, acutely aware of his presence, until her body simply couldn't stay awake anymore.

By the fourth night, she stopped resisting. She closed her eyes and let the silence of the shack wash over her, accepting the bizarre, unspoken truce of their shared bed.

The truce held, but sleep didn't come easy. The mattress was nothing more than a thin pad stuffed with straw over hard wooden planks. Every time Eve shifted her weight, a hard ridge of wood would dig into her hip or her shoulder.

A few nights into their silent cohabitation, she rolled over slightly too fast. Her elbow cracked against the solid wooden edge of the bed frame. Pain shot up her arm, sharp and immediate, making her gasp and squeeze her eyes shut.

She didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She just bit her lip and waited for the throb to fade. But the damage was done. The spot would bruise, adding to the mosaic of colors already painting her skin.

She glanced over at Cato. He was lying next to her, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She thought he was asleep. She let out a quiet, frustrated sigh and tried to find a position that didn't involve a piece of wood stabbing her.

The next afternoon, Cato put on his boots and walked out the door. Eve assumed he was going to his work detail at the fortress. She spent the long hours staring at the ceiling, trying to flex her ankles, plotting her escape, and wondering how she was going to get her strength back.

When the sun began to set, the door creaked open. Cato walked in, but he wasn't carrying water or firewood. He had a massive burlap sack slung over his shoulder. It looked heavy, the fabric straining at the seams.

He dropped it on the floor with a soft thud. Eve watched, her curiosity piqued, as he untied the cord at the top. He reached in and pulled out a handful of silvery-white fiber. It wasn't cotton. It was softer, with a strange luminescence, like spun moonlight. She had never seen anything like it. It smelled faintly of high mountain air and frost.

Eve frowned. This wasn't something you could buy at a market. This was something you found.

Cato didn't offer an explanation. He pulled out a needle, some thick thread, and a few yards of unbleached muslin. He sat down on the stool, positioned the lamp closer to his hands, and began to work.

He was making a mattress pad.

Eve watched, mesmerized, as he stuffed the glowing fiber into the muslin casing. His hands were made for heavy labor-hauling rocks, swinging axes. They were too big for the tiny needle. His movements were slow, not clumsy, but painstakingly deliberate. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he guided the needle through the thick fabric with a surgeon's focus, as if each stitch was a critical suture.

Suddenly, he jerked. The needle had slipped, driving deep into the pad of his index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up.

Eve held her breath, waiting for him to swear, to throw the needle down, to show some sign of frustration. But Cato just stared at his finger for a moment. He wiped the blood on his pants, picked the needle back up, and went right back to sewing, his rhythm unbroken, his patience as vast and silent as the mountain itself.

He spent the entire night on it. The rhythmic sound of the needle piercing fabric filled the quiet shack. Eve watched the lamplight play over his sharp features, the intense focus in his eyes, the way he stubbornly refused to give up on a task he was clearly unsuited for.

Why? The question pounded in her head. Why go through all this trouble? Why climb to the highest peaks for a mythical plant fiber for her? Why prick his fingers bloody just so she wouldn't bruise against the wood? It made no sense. She was nothing to him. A burden. A criminal.

When the first gray light of dawn crept through the cracks, he tied off the final stitch. He stood up, his joints popping, and walked over to the bed. He carefully lifted Eve in his arms, setting her gently on the stool. He stripped the thin straw pad off the bed and replaced it with the thick, plush pad he had just made.

He picked her up again and laid her back down.

The difference was staggering. The mattress yielded to her weight, cradling her aching bones. The pressure on her hips and shoulders vanished, replaced by a soft, supportive cloud. She felt like she was floating.

Cato kicked off his boots and lay down beside her, his usual routine unbroken.

Eve lay there, staring at the ceiling. The new pad smelled faintly of the sun and the raw, clean scent of the mountain peaks. She turned her head slightly, looking at the side of his face in the dim light. He had closed his eyes immediately, his breathing already slowing.

She didn't turn away this time. She let herself look at him, really look, for the first time since he had dragged her out of the dirt. She didn't understand him. He was a walking contradiction-a menial with the skills of a surgeon, a silent watcher who performed impossible feats for a stranger's comfort.

The fear and the anger were still there, but they were being drowned out by something much more dangerous: curiosity.