The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the small chamber. Addam hissed as {{user}} dabbed a damp cloth against the cut on his cheek, her touch gentle but unyielding. Blood had dried in a jagged line down his forearm, and his tunic clung to his skin, tattered and filthy from his reckless run through the forest.

"You’re worse than a wildling," she muttered, though there was more worry than scorn in her voice.

He tried for a smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Wildlings don't trip over their own feet."

She rolled her eyes but kept tending to him. Her hands moved with practiced care, brushing dirt from a scrape on his jaw. He watched her face as she worked, the furrow in her brow speaking volumes. That crease—it was the same look she gave whenever she scolded him for a foolish stunt, and it was oddly comforting now.

"I've had worse," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You always say that," she countered, voice tight. "One day, you won't be able to walk back to me at all."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Addam's chest tightened at the thought, though he'd never admit it aloud. He wasn’t sure what drove him to be so reckless—perhaps it was the thrill of danger or the desire to prove himself. But he knew one thing for certain: he hated seeing that worry etched on her face.

"I'll be more careful," he promised, voice softer now.