Phantom Hollow As fresh as a daisy,

Hunst's brow lifted, momentarily taken aback by Reverie’s touch, though he didn’t withdraw. The gesture, delicate but laden with unspoken need, stirred something rare within him—a quiet hum of approval escaping his chest, low and grounding, as if anchoring her to the present. Soldiers work hard. Hard work makes you hungry.

He let her words settle in the air, weightier than her teasing tone suggested. His usual detached stoicism softened, recognizing her distraction as more than just the idle musings of a restless spirit. Reverie's grief lingered like the fog over dawn waters, a half-lit sorrow she struggled to hide, despite her quip.

Silence lay between them, a thread neither wished to break. He didn’t need to speak to grant truth to her sentiment; his stillness alone offered it weight. In this fragile moment, she found a steadfast presence—a quiet sanctuary within his massive shadow, where words could rest unspoken.

Guess I could call you a soldier, now.