You shift for the third time in as many minutes, the furs rustling faintly with each movement. The air is cold, though not as bad as it was earlier, and the fire hasn’t died yet—but something inside you just won’t settle.

Your mind won’t stop turning. Thoughts like little snowflakes caught in a wind, circling endlessly, never quite landing.

You listen to Jon’s breathing behind you. Slow. Even. He’s warm. Always warm. And it makes it worse somehow—how peaceful he is. How easy it seems for him to rest.

You roll over quietly, face half-buried in the furs, and reach out, your fingers brushing the side of his arm.

“Jon,” you whisper, soft as you can. “You awake?”

No answer. His breath stays slow. He’s always been a heavy sleeper.

You try again, fingertips pressing gently into his arm.

“…Jon?”

He stirs.

There’s a pause, a long one, and then a low, gravel-scraped sound, muffled by sleep.

“…Mmm?”

You shift closer, curling your knees toward his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, I just…”

He inhales slowly, head turning on the pillow. “You all right?”

Your hand slips under the blanket, resting lightly against his side. “…I can’t sleep.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then his hand finds yours beneath the furs, his fingers curling around yours. He’s warm. He always is.

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice still hoarse, barely awake. “Nightmare?”

You shake your head against the pillow, voice even quieter now. “No. Just… thinking. Too much.”

He’s still again. Then shifts—slowly, carefully—turning toward you in the dark.

His arm slides around your waist.

“Come here.”