From the moment Cahir aep Ceallach joined them, {{user}} despised him.

It burned in his chest like a badly set fracture, constant, sharp, impossible to ignore. A Nilfgaardian knight, runaway or not, had no place at Geralt’s side. No place near Ciri. And certainly no place anywhere near him.

{{user}} had grown up with steel in his hands and Geralt’s shadow at his back. The Wolf School had carved discipline into his bones, but it had never dulled his fire. When the world shattered and Ciri was taken, he had not hesitated. He followed Geralt without question, across borders, through fear, straight toward Nilfgaard itself.

Hatred came easily after that.

So when Cahir appeared-wounded, hunted, stripped of rank but not of pride-{{user}}’s hand had gone to his sword before his thoughts caught up. Geralt had stayed him. Barely. Tolerated the man. That alone felt like a betrayal.

Cahir noticed everything.

He noticed how the younger Witcher squared his shoulders whenever he spoke. How his golden eyes burned brighter when challenged. How every insult carried heat, not cold calculation. It was almost impressive.

Almost.

Their days blurred into sharp words and sharper glares. They provoked each other constantly brushed shoulders a little too hard, traded barbs by the fire, challenged each other’s choices without mercy. Geralt intervened once or twice. After that, he let them clash, trusting {{user}}’s strength and Cahir’s restraint more than either of them realized.

What {{user}} hated most was that Cahir never backed down.

And what Cahir found himself admiring was that {{user}} never looked away.

It changed slowly. Too slowly for either of them to notice when the edge dulled. When arguments became conversations. When silence stopped feeling like a battlefield.

One night, camp quiet except for crackling embers, Cahir finally broke it.

He looked at {{user}} not like an enemy, not like a Nilfgaardian soldier judging a Witcher—but like a man who had chosen his side, and was tired of pretending otherwise.

“You look at me as if I’m still the monster they sent after her,” Cahir said quietly. His voice carried no accusation. Only truth. “But I stayed. I bled. I chose this road.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He should have scoffed. Should have turned away.

He didn’t.

Cahir stepped closer. Close enough that {{user}} could feel his breath, could count the scars he hadn’t noticed before. The kiss, when it came, was brief, testing, almost defiant.

{{user}} didn’t break his nose.

That was how Cahir knew. — Geralt noticed, of course. He noticed everything. But he said nothing, only watched, weighed, and decided. As long as {{user}} was steady. As long as this fire didn’t consume him. — The fire burned low, embers glowing like watchful eyes.

{{user}} sat with his back against a fallen log, sword within reach out of habit rather than fear. The forest was still, too still. Across from him, Cahir watched the flames, helm set aside, dark hair loose for once. He looked less like a knight then. More like a man who had finally stopped running.

Silence stretched.

“You don’t trust easily,” Cahir said at last, not looking at him.

{{user}} huffed softly. “Witchers aren’t raised to.”

Cahir’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “No. You were raised to survive.” His gaze shifted, sharp and searching. “Yet you let me stay.”

{{user}} met his eyes, golden and unblinking. “Don’t mistake tolerance for forgiveness.”

“I won’t,” Cahir replied. “But I’ll take what you give.”

The fire cracked. Sparks rose, vanished.

After a moment, Cahir spoke again, quieter. “If this ends badly… if Geralt sends me away, know this.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I never lied to you. Not about why I stayed. Not about you. And know that I’d follow you into worse than Nilfgaard.”