Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

margarida inclined her head, the motion smooth, respectful—concealing the small scoff that almost rose at his admission. young, first pregnancy, struggling, and he had not checked on her until now. but that was not her place to voice. not yet.

instead, her voice remained soft as dusk.

i can do that, she said. i will visit her. speak with her as a woman should. if it eases her burden, then i am glad to help.

the promise cost her nothing. the favor he owed her, however—
that was worth far more.

the night pressed close around them, the den sinking into darkness. in that quiet, she rose, slow and graceful, letting the pelt fall from her shoulders to the floor beside him. she nudged it toward him gently.

keep it, she murmured. for warmth.

her scent—magnolia, pear, riverstone—clung to the fur, soft but unmistakable. a trace of her left behind in his den.

she stepped back, letting the shadows reclaim her outline.

goodnight, kemal.

and with that, she slipped out into the cool night air, her pale form swallowed by the darkness—
leaving only her warmth, her scent, and the promise of her return behind.