Meiling slumped against the charred brick wall, knees drawn up, chest heaving like she'd just run a marathon through hell.
Her clothes hung in ragged strips, exposing scrapes that still wept blood. The fire she'd coaxed from splintered wood crackled between them, roasting three skewered fish she'd caught from the nearby water body.
The smell salty, smoky, almost comforting should have made her stomach growl. Instead, it just reminded her how long it'd been since she'd eaten anything that wasn't emergency rations.
The man sat two feet away, back straight, eyes fixed on the flames as if they owed him money. His clothes were no better, torn, salt-crusted, the kind of disheveled that looked deliberate on someone else but made him seem... fragile.
Like a porcelain doll someone had dropped and glued back together wrong. His face, though. That was what kept dragging her gaze back.
Gray eyes. Same sharp angle to his cheekbones. Even the way his hair fell across his forehead messy.
