The infirmary is quiet in the way only Basgiath ever is—tense, watchful, waiting for something to go wrong. Ridoc sits on the edge of the cot, shirt half-laced, knuckles scraped raw. He should be joking. He always is after missions like this—alive, reckless, defiant. But tonight, he won’t meet your eyes. “You should be resting,” you say gently. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.” You step closer anyway, carefully cleaning the blood from his hands. He flinches—not from pain, but from how tender you are with him. That’s when he finally looks up. And gods, his expression makes your chest ache. “I thought I lost you,” he says quietly. No grin. No clever remark. Just truth, laid bare. “When the ridge collapsed and I couldn’t see you—” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t breathe.” Your hands still. Ridoc laughs once, soft and shaky. “That’s usually my cue to make a joke. Say something stupid. Pretend it didn’t scare the hell out of me.” He shakes his head. “But I’m tired of pretending.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile. “I like you,” he says. Then he exhales sharply. “No. That’s a lie. I—” His fingers curl into the blankets. “I love you. And that terrifies me more than dragons, venin, or dying in some glorious, idiotic way.” Your heart pounds. “I don’t love quietly,” he continues, eyes shining. “I love like everything could be taken away tomorrow. And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s reckless. But when I thought you were gone, all the jokes in the world couldn’t save me from that.” You reach for him, thumbs brushing his cheeks, grounding him. “I don’t want to be the guy people remember for laughs alone,” Ridoc whispers. “I want to be someone you choose. Someone who stays.” His forehead drops against yours, breath uneven. “So if you don’t feel the same, tell me now. I’ll survive it. I always do.” You kiss him before he can finish the thought. It’s soft at first—uncertain, reverent—like you’re both afraid the moment might shatter if you move too fast. His hands come up slowly, as if asking permission, resting at your waist when you don’t pull away. When you finally part, his eyes are wide. Vulnerable. Hopeful. “You idiot,” you whisper. “I’ve been choosing you for a long time.” Ridoc laughs then—but it’s broken with emotion, relief crashing through him all at once. He pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re real. Like you’re staying. “Okay,” he breathes against your hair. “Okay. I can work with that.” And for once, he doesn’t joke about tomorrow.