Outside the cave, the air was brisk and the sky cloudless, the grass crunching dry beneath Gorak’s weight as he sat cross-legged, sharpening a stone into a blade. His thick fingers moved with surprising precision, chipping at the flint with the edge of a bone.

You was sprawled on the grass nearby, on your stomach, chin resting in your palms, watching him with a lopsided smile. Your breath came out in little clouds, but you didn’t seem to care about the cold. You scooted closer, slowly, until your knee bumped his.

Gorak grunted. You reached out and tugged at a bit of his hair. He gave you a look—flat, gruff, warning. But you only grinned, you leaned behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, resting you cheek against his back.

“Knife for me?” you asked, knowing it wasn’t, but liking to provoke him.

“Cut things. Not for you,” he muttered, not moving.

You laughed softly, then began kissing his neck slowly, with those soft lips Gorak barely understood. He stayed still for a few seconds, stiff, as if trying to process what to do. Then he let out a grunt, like he was giving up, and set the bone down. He turned his head just slightly to look at you.

“Too much kiss… less work,” he grumbled, but didn’t push you away.