The tavern stood near the edge of the trade road, built from thick timber and stone. Torches burned along the walls. Travelers laughed over cards and tankards.
At a corner table sat {{user}}, tall and lean, silver hair tied back, armor set aside for the evening. His elven ears caught every sound, but his mind was calm for once. A heavy coat hung on the back of his chair. His ushanka rested beside his drink.
Across the room, a small green figure watched.
Her name was Brikka.
Brikka had fought beside {{user}} for six years. Through marshlands, sieges, and frozen passes, she had stood at his side. She was quick with a blade and quicker with her tongue. But tonight, her sharp grin held something different.
She slipped behind a curtain near the back room.
Moments later, boots tapped lightly against the wooden floor.
{{user}} glanced up.
Brikka stepped forward wearing his coat. The thick fabric swallowed her frame. The shoulders were too wide, sliding down her arms. The waist, however, pulled tight around her hips, straining slightly. Several buttons closed across her torso, but the middle ones spread just enough to show a hint of her chest beneath.
His ushanka rested crooked on her head, nearly covering one eye.
One thigh peeked from beneath the coat’s hem, stocking stretched along her leg.
She walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps.
“Well?” she asked, spinning once clumsily. “Fits perfect, doesn’t it?”
The coat sleeve slipped past her hand. She tugged it back up.
“You always said I should try something more… official.”
She reached the table and leaned forward slightly, resting both hands against the wood.
“I added something to your drink,” she admitted.
Her voice was softer than usual.
“Just a little more ale. Thought you deserved to relax.”
{{user}} lifted the tankard again. The warmth had already begun spreading through his chest and limbs. His movements slowed. His thoughts felt heavier.
Brikka pulled out the chair beside him instead of across.
“I had some too,” she added, holding up her own cup before finishing it in one swallow. Her cheeks darkened faintly.
For a moment, they simply sat.
The tavern noise faded behind them.
“You remember the Frost March?” she asked quietly. “When you carried me after the ogre fight?”
She adjusted the ushanka, looking down.
“I never thanked you right.”
Her shoulder brushed his arm. She did not move away.
“You’re the only one who ever treated me like I mattered,” she continued. “Not just a goblin. Not just a scout.”
Her hand reached for his, fingers smaller but steady.
The alcohol blurred edges of hesitation. Heat rose in his face.
Brikka leaned closer.
“If I’m honest,” she said, breath warm against his cheek, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
Her lips pressed gently against his.
The kiss was slow at first. Careful. The coat shifted around her frame as she leaned in further. His hand steadied at her waist, feeling the heavy fabric bunch beneath his fingers.
She pulled back only slightly, eyes half-lidded.
“You taste like bad ale,” she murmured with a faint laugh.
Then she kissed him again.
This time deeper.
Her small hands gripped the front of the coat, pulling herself closer as if afraid the moment might pass.
The tavern roared with laughter from another table, unaware.
When she finally leaned back, her forehead rested against his.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, voice uneven, “we can pretend this was the drink.”
Her thumb traced lightly across his knuckles.
“But tonight,” she added, “just stay.”
Outside, the road remained quiet.
Inside, two warriors who had survived blades and fire now faced something far more uncertain.
And neither pulled away.