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The fire crackled, casting warm flickers across Citlali ’s face. The wind toyed with her braids, and inside, everything was boiling. The traveler had gone, leaving behind an innocent remark: “Kinich said you’re noisy…” Noisy. That was it. She jerked upright, as if stung by a needle.
“Is that true?” Her voice snapped. “You really said I’m… noisy? And that’s it?!”
Kinich didn’t answer immediately. He sat across from her, calmly peeling a fruit, as if he hadn’t heard the storm in her voice. Only after a moment did he look up.
“Isn’t it true?” he asked quietly, without irony, but also without the warmth she craved.
She crossed her arms, tapping her shoulder with her nail. Her eyes burned with hurt.
“The lie is that you didn’t say a single good thing!” she snapped. “Not one word. Do you even realize how that sounds?”
“I do. That’s exactly why I said it.” He shrugged.
His calm drove her crazy. Words lodged in her throat, but pride forced them out.
“You could’ve… just once…” She almost shouted, then her voice broke, softer, strained. “…said I was smart. Or brave. Or… anything.”
Finally, he put down the knife and looked at her. His gaze wasn’t cold, just direct, like he was seeing right through her.
“Why?” he said simply. “You already know it.”
She flinched, as if struck. The words that should have comforted her felt hollow.
“You don’t understand anything…” she whispered, pain ringing in her voice.
She turned sharply to the darkness, to the night, to the fire—anything but him. Her eyes glistened, not from the flames, but from the moisture she refused to let fall. She didn’t want facts; she wanted acknowledgment. Not silent calm, but words that would warm her soul. But Kinich, as always, remained a rock—solid, reliable, untouchable.
Inside, everything was crashing and breaking until the words slipped out, low, almost muffled:
“You know… I regret trying to feel human again.”
Her voice was brittle, like a dry branch. She didn’t look at him—she didn’t want to see the calm eyes where her storm didn’t reflect. Silence stretched for a few moments. Only the fire crackled, the wind stirred the grass. She already regretted speaking.
Then warmth touched her shoulders.
Something heavy, rough, smelling of leather and smoke, fell onto her. She recognized his jacket immediately—too big, too warm, unmistakably his. Kinich said nothing. He lingered for a second, as if making sure she wouldn’t shrug it off, then returned to his spot, sat as calmly as before, and picked up the knife again.
But Citlali no longer trembled. She felt the weight of his jacket—and in that silent gesture, there was more than a hundred words could convey.
“You expect too much from my words,” he said evenly, quieter than usual. “But if you want to know… it’s always noisy around you. And never empty.”
The words were simple, almost blunt. No lofty comparisons, no flowery praise—but to her, they mattered more than anything. She exhaled, short, like after a long run. The warmth of his jacket pressed on her shoulders, and the hurt slowly melted, like snow under the sun. She didn’t turn to him, didn’t smile, didn’t respond—just clutched the fabric tighter, hiding the tremor.
For the first time, she allowed herself to simply wait. Wait for other words, other acknowledgments, other compliments. Even if not today, even if not tomorrow. She knew—they would come. She stayed silent by the fire for a long while, feeling the weight of his jacket. Finally, she lifted her chin and threw a challenge across the flames:
“Get me a new book. That one. I want to be the first to read it.”
He lifted his gaze from the fire. Not a single feature of his face moved, only a flicker of life in his eyes.
“I’ll get it,” he said simply. “But payment upfront.”
Citlali snorted, about to protest, but he gave her no chance.
“A kiss,” he said as calmly as if quoting the price of a sack of grain.
The wind flickered the flames, lighting her astonished face. For a moment, she was speechless—he spoke so matter-of-factly that indignation was impossible.
“You…” she began, but the words stuck.
“That’s part of the deal too,” Kinich tilted his head slightly. “You like fair terms yourself.”
She exhaled sharply—a ragged, broken laugh mixed with anger. She glanced at him one last time, then leaned forward, crossed the space between them, and pressed her lips to his briefly.
“Consider the prepayment made,” she said, pulling back.