Zayden didn't turn back. "Not sure about anything," he replied as he stepped into the stairwell. "That's the issue."
The hidden base sealed shut behind Zayden with a soft hiss, wiping away any trace of the heavy darkness below. He climbed the narrow, creaky stairs back into the cabin, feeling weighed down by more than just exhaustion. The fire was barely a flicker now, its glowing embers casting shadows on the walls. Outside, everything was turning into a silvery landscape, with stars gradually appearing in the night sky, creating a peaceful yet haunting sight.
His stomach growled for the first time since sunrise.
They hadn't eaten anything all day.
Without giving it much thought, he moved into the kitchen and pulled out the venison he had cleaned yesterday. He sliced it into thin strips, moving his hands easily, guided by muscle memory. He was making his own version of chow mein, rough and improvised, with thick noodles and seared deer meat cooked in hot oil.
The knife clinked softly against the chopping board as he gathered some veggies: carrots, a wrinkled bell pepper, and a couple of potatoes to bulk it up. The tomatoes were still good, just barely.
He barely noticed her footsteps until she stopped right behind him.
She stood in the doorway, her sweater falling loosely off her shoulders. When their eyes met, there was a hint of caution, exhaustion, but also something softer than before.
"I came for water," she said.
Zayden nodded toward the counter. "Glasses are over there."
She grabbed a glass, filled it, and took a drink before standing quietly for a moment and then reaching for the potatoes.
He hesitated. "You don't have to—"
"I can peel them," she cut in, already pulling a knife from the drawer.
He didn't stop her.
For a few minutes, the silence between them felt almost…easy. Comfortable.
The ripe tomatoes thudded onto the cutting board, their skins shining in the light. With her sleeves rolled up, she worked with focus, slicing each piece with precision. Zayden glanced at her, noticing the small frown on her face and the way she shifted her weight restlessly, as if the quiet in the room made her uneasy.
"You're good with a knife," he eventually said.
"Only with a knife," she replied, keeping her tone light.
He smirked. "Yeah, how can I forget last night?"
She laughed and looked at him, her eyes sparkling with teasing, wariness, and amusement.
She asked, "What are you making?"
He replied, "Deer chow mein."
She wrinkled her nose. "Is that even a thing?"
"It is now," he said, tossing onions into the pan. "Options are limited."
She smiled softly.
Then, after a moment, she said, "My mom used to call me Moon."
The tone shifted subtly but deeply.
Zayden slowed down. "Why's that?"
"She said, 'If I'm ever lost, I'll find the moon again.'" Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "It was her way of saying that no matter how far apart we were, she'd always look for me. That she'd recognize me, even in the dark."
Zayden turned to look at her seriously now. "Is she…?"
"Gone." A pause. "A long time ago."
Her hands stopped moving, and she stared down at the curled tomato skin on the cutting board, clearly lost in thought.
"I used to hate that nickname," she admitted with a dry laugh. "But now... sometimes it's the only thing of hers I still hold onto."
Zayden's voice was low. "Moon suits you."
She met his gaze. It was steady and tough to read, but not cold. The room felt quiet and tense, like a wire stretched tight, ready to hum.
"I don't know why I said that," she admitted softly.
He moved a little closer. "Maybe you needed someone to listen."
They stood there in silence for a moment. The only sounds were the meat sizzling in the pan and the wind rustling outside.
She looked away first and went back to what she was doing, her fingers starting to move again. But the warmth between them lingered.
Twenty minutes later, they sat down to eat, each with a steaming bowl in front of them. The cabin felt different; it didn't feel safe, at least not yet.
But it felt like it was getting closer to something that could be.
Zayden figured that maybe, just maybe, even lost things could find their way back home.
Even broken things could find the light.
After finishing their meal in silence—her bowl still half-full and his empty—Zayden stood up and went back to the stove to scrape the leftover food from the pan.
Zeynep glanced over from her seat, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Are you still hungry?" she asked.
He shook his head. "It's for Leo."
She blinked, surprised. "He's here?"
Zayden didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved carefully, as if he didn't want to share too much. He grabbed an old metal plate from the cupboard, piled it with chow mein, and wrapped it in a cloth. Then he added a piece of stale bread and the better of the last two apples he had saved.
Zeynep watched him closely, not suspicious, just… curious.
She asked again, a little softer this time, "Who is he? Leo. Is he… your friend?"
Zayden paused, holding the cloth still in his hand. He turned away from her, but she noticed he tensed up a bit.
"Something like that, but it's really none of your business. You don't need to know about me," he said finally, his voice low.
Zeynep tilted her head, studying him. "You don't seem like the type to have many friends."
He gave a soft grunt, somewhere between agreeing and dismissing her. "I don't. Now, if you've got all your questions out of the way, can I go?"
"But you trust him," she added, not quite asking a question.
Zayden turned slightly and met her gaze over his shoulder. His expression was hard to read.
His eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was set in a straight line, like he was telling the truth but didn't want to say more.
"I trust what he can do," he said.