Sprunch wanted a mate more than she wanted breath, but she had never let a single soul see her face. She was a forest fairy no taller than a thumb, and she hid inside the tallest flowers of her grove. There a ring of towering blooms circled a still watering hole. She had watched three travelers pass through her forest that year. Each time she rose to speak. Each time her wings locked, her throat closed, and she sank back into the petals. By the time she found her courage, the traveler was gone. Today a fourth stranger stumbled into the grove. He was mortal, tall, dressed in a torn red vest studded with brass gears. Salt crusted his dark hair. He limped, and one boot left a wet print with each step. A pirate, shipwrecked, far from any sea. He dropped to his knees at the watering hole and drank like a man half dead. Sprunch pressed against a pink petal and watched him. Her heart pounded. This is the one, she thought. Speak. But her wings folded tight, and her voice died in her chest, the same as always. The man would drink, rest, and leave. She would lose him too. Then her guardian bird landed hard on a flower stem beside her. The bird was fierce and loyal, always scanning the horizon for a mate of her own. She fixed one bright eye on Sprunch. She saw the fairy frozen, silent, shrinking again. The bird made a sharp choice. She dove. She snatched Sprunch in her beak, gentle but firm, and swooped low over the water. The man looked up, startled. The bird opened her beak and dropped Sprunch straight toward him. Sprunch tumbled through the air, wings flaring too late, and landed on the back of his rough hand. He froze. She froze. There was nowhere left to hide. For the first time, a mortal looked right at her. His dark eyes went wide. "You're real," he said, voice cracked from salt water. "A little person. With wings." Sprunch's whole body shook. Every plan to hide was gone. She had no petal, no shadow, no way back. So she did the only thing left. She stood on his knuckle, lifted her chin, and spoke. "My name is Sprunch," she said. "This is my forest. You are hurt." The man stared a moment longer. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Constilation," he said. "And you might be the only good thing I've found on land." Above them, the guardian bird settled on a stem and watched, satisfied. Sprunch's secret was broken forever. She could never again vanish into the flowers from this man. Now she had to face what she had always wanted, standing in the open on a stranger's hand, with no idea what he would do next.

Constilation swayed on his knees by the watering hole. Sprunch still stood on his hand. Up close, she saw how bad off he was. His skin ran cold and wet. A gash on his shin oozed under the torn cloth. His breath came in shallow pulls. This mortal she wanted was dying, and the sun was already low. She had never healed a man. She had never healed anyone. But if she did nothing, he would not last the night. "Lie down," she said. "By the flowers. Now." He blinked at her, dazed. "You give orders," he murmured. "For someone so small." But he obeyed. He crawled to the ring of tall blooms and slumped in the leaves. Sprunch flew to his shin and studied the wound. Grit and salt filled it. She knew the grove better than her own wings. She knew which petals cleaned and which ones stung. She worked fast. She tore soft leaves and soaked them in the still water. She pressed them to the cut and wiped the grit away. Constilation hissed and jerked. "Hold," she said, and pushed harder. She climbed to a low orange bloom and cracked its stem. Thick sap ran out. She smeared it across the wound to seal it. Then she flew to a cluster of red petals known to warm the blood. She dropped them one by one into his open mouth. "Chew," she told him. He chewed. Slowly his shaking eased. His breath went deeper. Still he was cold, and night crept in. Sprunch could not carry a blanket. She was no taller than his thumb. She flew up in a panic, unsure what to do next. Then a hard shape dropped through the dark. Her guardian bird, the same fierce bird that had thrown her onto his hand, landed on his chest. In her beak she held a beakful of dry moss and broad leaves. She dumped them on him and jabbed her head at Sprunch, sharp and impatient. Sprunch understood. She dragged the leaves over his body, tucking them close. The bird tore more from the grove and piled it on. Together they buried the mortal in a warm heap of green. He stopped shivering. His eyes slid shut. Sprunch pressed her ear to his chest and heard the beat, steady now. She sat there long into the night, small on his ribs. He would live. She had saved him with her own hands. But dawn would come, and he would wake strong. He would remember he was a man far from any sea, alone but for a fairy the size of his thumb. He might try to leave the grove. Or he might stay and want more than tending. Sprunch watched him breathe and knew the hard part was only starting. She had wanted a mate. Now she had a living, waking man, and no idea how to keep him.