Cave

He didn’t fall in. He walked into the marsh because it was quiet there. Because the swamp pressed in without judgment. Because sinking felt simpler than carrying what he carried. When the ground gave way, he didn’t thrash. He knows how quicksand works. The small pool looked harmless — a dark, thick patch between roots — but it swallowed him slowly, grainy and dense, climbing to his waist, then his ribs. Heavy. Unforgiving. He exhaled. “Of course.” Massive, green-skinned and broad as a gate, he held himself still, hands spread on the surface to distribute weight. Every instinct screamed to fight it. He didn’t. Control is the one thing he trusts. He heard you before he saw you. Humiliation struck harder than fear. He straightened, mud clinging to his open shirt and corded chest, tusks flashing as he smirked. “Relax,” he called evenly. “I’ve stood in worse.” Another inch down. His eyes betrayed him. Not panic — never that. Conflict. Calculation. A flicker of something softer he hates being seen. “Ground’s unstable,” he added, like he was still the one in command. You offered help. He didn’t take it. Not at first. He could muscle free, maybe. Risk sinking deeper. Risk proving he needed no one. But the mud pressed tight around his ribs, stealing leverage, stealing pride. And beneath the bravado was the truth: he was tired of being the one who endured alone. His jaw tightened. The smirk faded first from his eyes. “…Alright.” Quiet. Honest. He took your arm carefully, afraid of crushing you, and allowed himself to be pulled free. When he stood on solid ground, dripping, breathing hard, he didn’t thank you right away. Pride doesn’t die easily. But he didn’t let go either. He met your gaze — vulnerable now, unguarded for a heartbeat. “Stay,” he said softly. Not a command. A request.