Rinwell tries. She has gotten better in the grand scheme of things, pushed through her discomfort, and come around the bend a little. And yet.

She eyeballs him. Dohalim. He sits there at the edge of the camp, all prim and proper as he watches everyone else with a shrewd gaze. Rinwell's lips curl, a tiny and bitter thing that comes so naturally. She knows that he means well, which is almost worse.

Rinwell does not dislike him as a man but hates him as a Renan. It pulls and tugs at her. Wears her out. She is exhausted by feeling as though she has to watch her back, even if he has no intention of harming her.

Deep-seated, emotionally crusted wariness burns brightly in her core. Spite has fueled her for so long that wanting to move past it feels foreign.

"You should just talk to him."

Rinwell blinks, pulling from her thoughts. Kisara watches her back with a kind, almost motherly smile. Rinwell doesn't need a mother, least of one who licks the boots of—

No, no, she thinks. Too far. Be better, Rinwell.

"I'm not sure he'd want to talk to me." Rinwell laughs nervously, unsure of where it comes from.

"He likes you, you know." Kisara seems amused. "You might find it hard to believe, but he enjoys your spunk."

"I think that my spunk wears him out." Because Rinwell's spunk is thinly veiled threats and sneers at his back.

Kisara is quiet for a moment. "Dohalim is a man who has always worked against the grain. It is only natural for him to like others who do the same."

"You could always just feed him," says Shionne, dropping to the log next to them, sitting just far enough out of reach. In her lap, she holds a spread of dubiously cooked food, but tucks right into it nonetheless.

When Kisara and Rinwell say nothing, Shionne looks between them, a poultry leg held in her greasy fingers. "What? Don't you know that's the easiest way to a man's heart?"

"I'm not trying to—" Rinwell's words are cut off by a hearty laugh from Kisara.

Shionne shrugs. "Look, I get it. Things are weird for you. Law too. Unresolved tension, blah blah—"

Rinwell feels a headache brewing. "Shionne—"

"We're friends, right?" Rinwell does not expect the question or the way that Shionne's gaze softens. She waves the poultry leg between them. "I mean, I'm not just imagining that, right? We have become friends."

They have. Rinwell has managed to find a place for Shionne in her heart, trusting that she'll watch her back as well as any Dahnan.

"Then what's the difference with him? Hasn't he proven himself too?"

Rinwell is quiet as she wrings her fingers. "Yes." She pauses. "I'm not very good at cooking, though."

Shionne shrugs. "That's your problem."

#

Rinwell is one-thousand percent sure that the meal she's made just might be poisoned.

Unintentionally, of course. She regards the plate with a narrowed gaze and a terse frown. Rinwell followed the recipe to a tee—at least, she thinks that she did. Kisara's handwriting isn't the best, and Rinwell had to sort of half-quint to make it out, too stubborn to just ask.

Kisara swore that this is Dohalim's specialty, one of his own making that he is quite fond of. Rinwell frowns as she watches a strange sort of juice leak out from the side of the fluffy pancake. Topping it all off is a nice, fruity jam, pulling together what she hopes is something satisfying.

Smells decent, at least.

She looks across the camp, gaze settling on burnished red hair. Now or never. Too late to chicken out. Rinwell forces herself to trudge across the camp until she stands opposite Dohalim, arm outstretched, plate balanced in her hand.

Dohalim looks at her, head cocked to the side as he blinks. "I—er—"

"I made this for you." Rinwell can't help how aggressively she says it, and immediately winces the moment the words leave her mouth.

His expression morphs into something amused. "You made this?" he asks in that quiet, polite way of his. Rinwell hates how kind it is. Dohalim takes the plate from her hand, leaving her to stand there awkwardly. "Ah, this is—"

"Kisara gave me the recipe. I'm not much of a cook. Can't promise that it won't kill you."

Dohalim laughs lightly. "I have it on good authority that you wouldn't do that."

At that, Rinwell's gaze narrows. "On whose authority?"

"Just about everyone." Dohalim laughs again, a short sound. "Miss Rinwell—"

"Ugh, don't call me Miss."

"Rinwell, then," he corrects, "I am well aware that we have our differences."

Differences puts it mildly. Rinwell stands there obstinately, arms crossed over her chest. "Are you going to eat it or not?"

"Oh, most certainly." Dohalim's face crinkles slightly as he takes the fork and shovels a bite into his mouth. Rinwell watches carefully. Dohalim doesn't die. In fact, he pats his mouth politely with a napkin, and then says, "Rinwell, please sit."

She doesn't want to. Despite cooking a meal for him, she isn't quite sure she's ready for such familiarity. "I…"

"Of everyone here, you are the one I know the least. I would like to change that. And, I think that perhaps you want to as well."

Rinwell sits beside him, wringing her fingers in her lap. She ignores the far-too-curious stares of their companions, focusing only on Dohalim's face.

"Do you know what I like about you?" he asks her, digging back into the pancakes for another bite. "Your tenacity. It's very admirable."

"Odd, that a Renan would say that."

Dohalim's eyes twinkle. "It is a good thing, then, that I'm considered odd. Now, if I were to ask you to tell me about yourself, would you?"

Rinwell thinks. She expects to dislike the idea of it, but—

"Yes," she says simply. "I… yes, I would."

Dohalim smiles, gesturing to her with his fork. "Well then, on with it."

Rinwell smiles back, a strangely genuine thing.

You can follow me on Twitter: _Cavalierious_