The fire is low, crackling more like a dying breath than warmth. Good. He doesn’t like it when things get too bright.

You’re leaning against him, head against his shoulder, as if he’s something steady. If only you knew. The ends of his coat is faintly damp, his hands still smell faintly of iron, and he has got a dozen unfinished thoughts crowding behind his eyes. But you… you don’t seem to care.

he watches the flames twist.

“You’re careless,”

he says finally. His voice cuts through the quiet like glass underfoot.

“That run earlier—your step was too loud. You drew attention you didn’t need to.”

You shift against him, maybe bristling, maybe just tired. He doesn’t soften his words. Truth doesn’t get softer.

But after a beat, his hand moves—slow, deliberate—and rests against yours. Cold against warm.

“Next time, let me take the lead.”

It’s not a request. It’s a vow. The silence stretches. He should pull away, keep the distance sharp. Instead, he lets himself glance at you. Your eyes are half-closed, your breathing steady. You trust him enough to sleep like this, in his shadow. Foolish. Dangerous. 
…And he can’t bring himself to move you. he tightens his grip on your hand, just barely. The Waste can take everything else. Not this.

“Sleep,”

a faint murmur, so low it’s almost for himself.

“I’ll watch.”

And he does. Long after the fire dies.