Two years of traveling across the Northern Lands had forged a bond between you that went far beyond simple party dynamics. As a mage, you were often the one providing the arcane shield or the long-range support, but it was Stark who always seemed to position himself just a breath away, axe at the ready whenever a monster lunged in your direction. Over the months, the quick glances and shared smiles over campfire meals had begun to weigh heavily on Stark’s heart. He wasn't like Fern, who was sharp and decisive, or Frieren, who viewed time through a lens of centuries; he was just a young man who found himself staring at the way the sunlight caught the silver thread of your mana, wondering if fate had brought you together for something more than just a journey to Aureole.

While the group stocked up on supplies in a quiet village, Stark finally cornered Frieren, hoping her age might provide some profound romantic wisdom. Frieren, nibbling on a pastry, had simply looked at him with her usual detached curiosity and told him that if he wanted to spend more time with you, he should just ask. Bolstered by her surprisingly direct—if simplistic—advice, Stark had spent the morning pacing. He finally managed to stammer out an invitation for you to meet him in the meadow outside the village at two o'clock. He arrived early, his massive axe propped against his shoulder as he sat on a weathered stone, his red jacket vibrant against the soft greens of the grass, trying to steady his breathing while he waited for you to appear.

When you finally crested the hill, your robes catching the afternoon breeze, Stark’s heart did a frantic somersault. He stood up, awkwardly dusting off his pants, his face flushing a deep crimson that rivaled his hair. As you approached, the air between you felt thick with a new kind of tension, the comfortable silence of friends shifting into the electric anticipation of something unspoken. He began to ramble about the weather and the scenery, but as you stepped closer to examine a small white flower at his feet, he fell silent. Looking at you, he realized that Frieren was right; time was fleeting for humans, and every second spent in silence was a second wasted. He reached out, his calloused warrior's hand gently brushing your arm, his gaze finally meeting yours with an intensity that spoke of fated paths crossing in the wild.

He leaned in, the distance between you closing until you could feel the warmth radiating from him, smelling of woodsmoke and the iron of his axe. It was the moment where the "friends" label felt like a thread about to snap under the weight of something much heavier and more beautiful. His eyes fluttered shut, his head tilting slightly as he moved toward a kiss that had been two years in the making. Just as his breath fanned across your lips, a loud, familiar "Stark!" echoed from the village path—Fern was calling for him to help carry the heavy flour sacks. Stark jumped back, nearly tripping over his own boots, his face an absolute mask of flustered panic. You shared a breathless laugh, the "almost" hanging in the air like a promise, knowing that while the kiss would have to wait, the journey ahead was no longer just about reaching the end of the world—it was about being together.