When I struggle to sit up, he’s there, his hands steady and gentle as he helps me. When I can’t reach the waterskin, he brings it to me without being asked. When I wince trying to adjust my position, he gathers soft moss and places it behind my back with surprising care.

I don’t remember him being this gentle with me before. During our journey, he was gruff, demanding, always seeming reluctant to help. Now he moves around me like I’m made of delicate crystal, like he’s afraid I might shatter at any moment.

His actions confuse me more than his words do. This tenderness, this careful attention—it clashes with...