Winding Down

"I'll give you that. The potatoes are somewhat good," Io admits between bites, her usual skepticism dulled by the simple pleasure of a warm meal.

"Somewhat?" I scoff, pretending to be offended. "I’ll have you know, these are expertly prepared field rations. A true delicacy of—" I wave a hand vaguely, "—necessity."

Io smirks, chewing thoughtfully. "Necessity makes for terrible food."

"Well, it worked out fine for one king back home," I say, pulling a story from the depths of my memory. "He wanted his subjects to eat potatoes, but they weren’t interested. So, instead of forcing them, he planted a guarded potato field right outside his palace. People assumed they were valuable because of all the security, so they started stealing them. Eventually, they decided they liked them after all."

Io raises an eyebrow, amused. "Were you planning to do the same for us?"

"Doesn’t seem necessary," I say, glancing at the empty plate between us. "You’re already sold."

She leans back against the headboard, stretching her arms. “Alright, we’re done eating. Time to sleep.”

Right. Sleeping.

I hesitate.

It's not that I have a problem with sharing a bed. It’s just… weird. I can’t quite explain why. Maybe because we’ve been living together for months, but somehow this still feels like a different level of closeness? Or maybe because it makes the whole fake marriage cover feel a little too real.

Io notices my pause. "What, you snore or something?"

"No," I say quickly. "At least, I don’t think so."

She gives me an unimpressed look. "Then pick. Right or left?"

I take a breath, willing myself to be an adult about this. It’s just a bed. "Left."

"Alright, right for me then."

The mattress sags slightly under our weight as we settle in. To my surprise, the bed is actually… decent. There’s a mattress—something between straw and some softer filling, thick enough that I don’t feel the wooden frame beneath. The pillow is firm but usable. The covers are heavy, trapping warmth almost instantly.

I exhale, tension easing from my shoulders. "This is weirdly familiar."

"What, the bed?" Io asks.

"Yeah, it’s surprisingly similar to the ones back home. I expected something… rougher. More primitive."

Io shifts slightly, the blankets rustling. "And that’s the weird part?"

I glance at the ceiling. The candle on the nightstand flickers, casting moving shadows along the wooden beams. "I guess I forget, sometimes, that I need to treat this place as separate from my world and its history."

She hums, considering that. "You mean, this world reminds you of your past?"

"In a way. It’s like looking at a version of history I should already know—except the details don’t line up. The tech is different in weird ways. The culture doesn’t evolve the same way. Some things feel modern, some things feel ancient. And none of it follows the timeline I’d expect."

Io turns onto her side, propping herself up slightly. The candlelight catches the sharpness of her expression. "History, huh? And what about your history?"

I blink, caught off guard. "...What about it?"

"You talk about the past like it’s something you study from a distance. But I don’t actually know your past." She watches me, waiting. "Can’t you just explain that to me for once?"

I shift uncomfortably, staring up at the ceiling again. "You’d rather hear about that instead of, I don’t know, another science lesson?"

Io snorts. "We've been traveling together for a day now, and this is the longest stretch of time we’ve had with nothing to do. We’ve talked about everything except ourselves."

I glance at her. She’s serious.

It’s true. Despite all our time working together, we’ve never actually sat down and had a real conversation about our own lives. That’s… odd, when I think about it.

But I don’t know what she expects to hear from me. My life wasn’t exactly remarkable. Not like hers. I wasn’t part of some isolated, hidden village. I wasn’t fighting for survival every day. I was just… existing.

I let out a slow breath. "Alright. Where do you want to start?"

###

Where should I go with this?

I’ve spent so much time asking him to explain things—science, history, nature. Things that keep him at arm’s length, safe behind layers of knowledge. But tonight feels different. This time, I don’t want a lecture. I want to know him.

I roll onto my side, resting my head on my arm. "Tell me about your dad."

Nate stiffens just slightly. It’s subtle—just a small shift in his breathing. Hesitation.

"Well," he finally says, "I have nothing to tell you."

I frown. "What, you don’t like him?"

"No… I’ve never met him." His voice is calm, even. Like he’s reading from a book. "Mom told me he died before she even got the chance to tell him she was pregnant."

"Oh." That was not the answer I was expecting.

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

The silence sits between us, stretching longer than it should. I don’t know what to say. It’s not pity I feel, exactly—I know Nate well enough by now to understand he wouldn’t want that—but there’s a weight to it. A puzzle piece sliding into place, one that I didn’t know was missing.

"You don’t have to be so quiet," Nate says after a moment, his voice lighter, almost casual. "It’s not really a touchy subject."

That’s a lie. Not an outright one, but a lie nonetheless. I recognize the tone—brushed-off, detached, like it’s just another fact, nothing worth lingering on. It’s the same way I used to talk about my father before Nate found out the truth.

I study him in the dim light of the candle. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, his fingers idly tugging at a loose thread in the blanket.

I don’t believe for a second that it doesn’t matter.

"So it was just you and your mom?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

"Yeah." He lets out a breath, something almost like a chuckle. "I guess that’s why I was never really pushed into marriage like you were. No nosey aunts, no siblings. Just me and her."

His words trail off slightly at the end.

Just me and her.

I wonder if he hears it the way I do—that past tense, that hollow space where something should be.

For once, Nate doesn’t fill the silence with a joke or a deflection. He just lies there, staring up at the ceiling like he’s seeing something I can’t.

Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, he asks, "What about you, then?"

I let out a breath. Figures he’d turn this around on me.

"You already know about my dad."

"Yeah. Doesn’t seem like you’re close."

That’s one way to put it.

"And my mom…" I hesitate, just for a second. "She died that winter."

I don’t need to say which one. He already knows.

His eyes flick toward me in the dim candlelight. He doesn’t ask me to explain. Doesn’t push. Just nods slightly, like he understands exactly what I meant.

"I see," he says simply.

And somehow, that is enough.

A few moments pass before Nate shifts, exhaling slowly. "Mine died a couple of years ago. Cancer." His voice is careful, measured. Then, as if realizing where this conversation is going, he quickly adds, "Did I ever tell you about cancer?"

I see what he’s doing. He’s trying to move on, trying to put distance between himself and the weight of what he just said.

"You’ve mentioned it before," I say, letting him have a way out.

The room falls into a quiet that’s heavier than before. Not suffocating, but full.

This wasn’t the conversation I had in mind when I asked about his father. It’s not what I wanted tonight. But I can’t say I regret it either.

We’re both quiet for a while, the candle’s flickering light casting long shadows against the walls.

This could’ve gone better.

"Well…" I shift, turning onto my back. "Thanks for sharing, Nate." It’s a simple phrase, but I mean it.

"Yeah," he murmurs. Then, after a pause, "Goodnight, Io."

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I close my eyes, listening to the faint creak of the wooden beams above us, the distant sounds of the inn settling for the night.

"Goodnight," I finally say.

There’s no more conversation after that.

###

What time is it?

The room is still dark, the air still heavy with night. No birdsong, no hint of dawn creeping in. Just silence, stretching between the wooden beams of the ceiling.

Was I even asleep? It doesn’t feel like it. My mind won’t stop circling, restless and tangled. Is it the journey? The weight of everything we have to do? Or… maybe it’s him?

Nate.

I glance toward him, but in the faint light, all I can make out is the vague shape of his form under the covers. I wonder if he was able to sleep after our conversation. If he’s still thinking about it.

Am I?

Maybe it’s something else keeping me awake.

The city.

The unknown waiting for us.

"Are you awake?" Nate’s voice is a whisper in the dark.

"Yeah. Can’t sleep either?" I turn slightly toward him.

He shifts, and I think he nods.

"If it’s about earlier," he says after a pause, "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sour the mood."

"No, it’s not that." I hesitate. "Actually… Thank you for that."

I don’t know if he understands what I mean, but he doesn’t ask. We let the quiet settle around us again.

But my thoughts don’t stop.

The city. The risk. The uncertainty.

I take a slow breath and force the words out. "Nate, I think I’m scared."

There. That’s what’s been gnawing at me.

He doesn’t respond right away, but I hear the shift of fabric as he turns toward me. "Yeah… me too." His voice is steady, but low. "Is it about our mission?"

"I think so. I don’t know what will happen in the city. There’s so much that could go wrong…" The words feel heavy as I say them out loud. "At first, I thought I was just excited, but the more real it gets…"

Nate’s voice is quieter now. "You know I’ll help you with everything, right?"

"But what if we’re not enough?"

That’s the real fear, isn’t it? We’re just two people, stepping into something so much bigger than us.

"I don’t know anymore," I sigh. "Maybe we should just see what happens."

The silence that follows isn’t the same heavy silence from before. It’s softer, lighter. But still there.

Then, Nate speaks again. "I’m scared too. But mostly of something else…"

"Yes?" I prompt gently, letting him take his time.

"Remember how you told me I don’t treat this life like it’s real? Back when you found me in that ruined village?"

"Is that bothering you now?"

"Not exactly. But I keep thinking about it." He shifts slightly. "What is real? What if this is just some kind of dream? Or worse… what if the thing that brought me here happens again?"

I don’t know what to say to that. He’s coming at this from a perspective I can’t even begin to understand. While I’m scared of the future, of the things we’re about to face, he’s scared of losing all of it.

Nate exhales, a little shaky. "I realized that I actually like how things are going. Me at the village, working with you. Having us here together. I… like it. It’s better than what I had before. And that scares me."

I watch him in the dim light, his face unreadable. He’s struggling to put this into words, and for once, I don’t know what to say to fix it.

So instead, I reach out and take his hand, squeezing it gently.

He lets out a breath.

"What if everything I like here is gone tomorrow?" His voice is almost too quiet to hear. "What if I wake up to the same boring life I had, and everything here—you—is just… gone? I’ve been here for months, but somehow, it feels more real than most of the years I had back home."

I press my thumb lightly against his palm. "Isn’t that natural? Your circumstances are different, but that just means you’re scared of losing what you have."

"Well, yeah."

"Then maybe that just means you value it."

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice that’s heavier than before, he says, "…I’m glad I met you, Io."

His fingers tighten around mine for just a second before he relaxes.

We lay there, neither of us speaking, neither of us letting go.

It’s strange, hearing someone else’s worries laid out like this. It makes my own seem… smaller, somehow. Not less real. But less lonely.

The first faint notes of birdsong break the quiet.

"You hear that?" I whisper.

Nate shifts beside me. "The birds. Morning’s close."

"We should try to sleep some more."

We don’t let go.