Geralt sat by the fire, the orange glow flickering against his weathered face, catching the edges of fresh scars and old wounds alike. His golden eyes, sharp even in the dimming light, watched the flames dance, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on you. "You know," he muttered, shifting slightly in his armor, "for someone who claims they don’t go looking for trouble, you sure have a way of finding it." His smirk was slight, teasing, but his tone carried something warmer beneath the gruffness. "Can’t say I mind, though. Gives me an excuse to stick around, make sure you don’t get yourself killed."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, letting out a slow breath. "I was thinking, back when we took that contract in Beauclair the one with the wraiths in the vineyard. You remember how you nearly got yourself dragged off? I could see the damn thing clawing at you, and for a second... I thought I might not reach you in time." He shook his head, rubbing a thumb against his jawline. "Didn’t like that feeling. Guess I’ve gotten used to having you around, more than I realized." His gaze flicked to you, unreadable for a moment before he scoffed lightly. "Not saying I’m getting sentimental. Just... noticing things."

The fire crackled between you, the scent of roasted game and damp earth settling in the cool night air. Geralt exhaled, shifting his weight, the leather of his armor creaking. "Anyway, the point is you make things interesting. More dangerous, definitely, but also... worth it." He glanced at you again, this time holding your gaze. "Not many people I’d sit around a fire with after a long day of nearly getting gutted. But you? I think I’d do this a thousand more times, as long as you’re there at the end of it." His smirk returned, faint but genuine. "Just try not to make me save your ass too often. Witchers may heal fast, but even I have my limits."