Oswin left Lira's hut with his legs still unsteady and the loincloth clinging damply where she had filled him, and the late-afternoon air outside felt almost too sharp after the close heat of the herb hut.
He walked straight to the stream instead of going home first because he needed the cold water more than he needed stew, and because he could still feel her inside him in a way that made walking feel indecent.
The current was stronger than it looked and the stones underfoot were slick, so he stripped without ceremony and waded in until the water reached his hips, hissing when it hit oversensitive skin.
He washed quickly at first, then slower, letting the current take the evidence of the afternoon while he tried to decide whether he felt used or claimed or simply lucky.
A pair of younger women further downstream glanced over, whispered, and went back to beating laundry against the rocks as if a naked chief's son standing thigh-deep in the stream was no more remarkable than a stray goat. One of them even called a lazy greeting. He lifted a hand and they laughed, not unkindly.
By the time he climbed out and tied the hide back on, the sun had dropped behind the treeline and cooking smoke hung low over the huts.
Elara was waiting just inside their doorway with a wooden bowl already filled, and she didn't ask questions the way a mother from his old world would have.
She only looked him over once, noted the loosened set of his shoulders, and handed him the bowl with a small, private smile that said she already knew enough.
"Eat while it's hot," she said, and then, after he sat, "Rika sent word that the second gate goes in at first light. She also said if you collapse in the dirt tomorrow she'll drag you back by the ear, so don't stay out too late thinking you're invincible."
He ate and couldn't help but notice the stew was better than yesterday, thicker, and he realized with a small jolt that someone must have added extra root because the first section of ditch was already holding water the way he had hoped.
Elara watched him finish the bowl, then reached across and brushed a smear of broth from the corner of his mouth with her thumb the same way she had when he was smaller, except now the gesture lingered a half-second too long and her eyes were warmer than maternal.
"You're changing the village already," she murmured. "Don't let it go to your head, but don't hide from it either. The women notice who works and who only takes."
He slept heavily that night and woke before the mist had lifted, body sore in useful places.
The ditch crew was already gathering when he arrived: Mara with her chest wrap slipping, Sena carrying two shovels like they weighed nothing, Talla silent as ever, and two more women he hadn't spoken to yet.
Rika stood at the far end with her staff planted and simply pointed where the second gate should sit. No speech, no praise. They dug.
The work was harder than yesterday because the ground closer to the creek was wetter and the stones they needed were farther, and Oswin's arms burned by mid-morning, but the channel took shape under their hands.
Mara worked beside him more often than chance would allow, her hip bumping his whenever she passed a stone, her voice low and teasing when the others were out of earshot.
"You look different again," she said while they packed earth around the first upright post. "Yesterday you were still half-surprised the world let you touch anyone. Today you walk like you already know it will."
He didn't have a good answer, so he kept packing earth, and she laughed under her breath and let the subject drop, though her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist when she handed him the next stone.
They finished the frame of the second gate just as the sun reached its highest point. Rika walked the length of the new section, tested the boards with her staff, and gave the same single nod she had given the day before.
That was apparently the highest compliment she offered. The women scattered toward the central fire for the midday meal and Oswin stayed a moment longer, looking at the water already beginning to find the new path instead of pooling and wasting itself.
Lira found him there.
She didn't announce herself; she simply appeared at his shoulder the way she always did, shawl loose, silver-streaked hair damp from her own washing, and the faint scent of crushed mint clinging to her skin.
She looked at the gate, then at him, and her mouth curved.
"You actually did it," she said, and the surprise in her voice was small but real. "Rika doesn't waste labor. If she let you keep going, the idea holds."
She reached out and traced one finger along the fresh-cut wood of the gate as if testing it the same way she tested him.
"Come after you've eaten," she added, quieter. "Not for the same lesson as yesterday. Something slower. You've earned the right to learn how to last longer than a first-timer, and Auntie intends to make sure you do."
Then she left him standing in the dirt with the new water moving past his ankles and the whole afternoon stretching ahead like an open door.
Oswin washed his hands in the channel, watched the current take the mud away, and started back toward the huts. The village felt different already—not because one ditch had changed the harvest, but because people had watched him put his back into something that wasn't just his own pleasure, and they had not looked away. Mara caught his eye from the fire pit and lifted her bowl in a small toast. Talla, standing apart, gave him the briefest glance that might have been approval.
He ate quickly, told Elara he would be at Lira's, and received only a knowing hum in return.
The herb hut flap was tied open when he arrived. Lira sat on the low stool this time, naked again, a small clay bowl of warmed oil beside her, and she looked up with the same unhurried hunger she always wore when the door closed behind him.
"Sit in front of me," she said. "And don't rush. Today we practice patience on purpose."
Oswin sat.
The afternoon had only just begun.