The storm breaks like a war drum. Wind howls down the stone corridors of the keep, rattling shutters and tugging at tapestries like the hands of a vengeful god. Rain lashes the windows in sheets, thunder cracking sharp and sudden above the tower, shaking the very bones of the keep.

You flinch.

You're not eight anymore, but some fears never age. You're curled in bed, back pressed tight to the carved headboard, arms wrapped around your knees beneath the furs. The hearth has long since gone out. Candles burning dim. But the shadows stretch long across the floor, and the thunder hasn’t stopped for hours.

And you hate it.

Always have — ever since you were a child clutching the edge of your blanket, praying the noise would pass. Praying no one would hear your sobs. That first night, when the storm howled so loud you’d fled your chamber barefoot in the dark, you'd run straight into him. Satoru, ten and reckless, sitting awake in the barracks corridor with a bruised cheek and a stolen apple.

You hadn’t even spoken. Just looked at him with wet eyes and trembling hands. And he’d said, simply: “Me too.”

He’d followed you back to your room and climbed into your bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t tell the Maester,” he’d whispered, as if you ever would.

He never stopped coming back after that.

Even now.

Your candle flickers again — and then, another crack. The thunder rolls over the keep in a roar so loud you choke on breath. Your nails dig into the blanket.

And then— A knock. Two taps, soft but firm. The way only he ever knocks.

Before you can answer, the door creaks open. Wind tugs at his cloak as he steps in, snow still clinging to the fur of his collar. His silver-white hair is damp, plastered slightly to his forehead, and his boots are muddy from the courtyard. He must’ve come all the way from the barracks.

“Satoru,” you breathe, half-relieved.

He shrugs off his cloak with a huff. “I saw the lightning hit the western watchtower,” he says. “Figured you’d be curled up like a cat in here.”

Your cheeks warm. “I wasn’t.”

Satoru raises a brow.

“Much,” you mutter.

Satoru smirks. That infuriating, knowing smirk. Then his eyes soften. “You should’ve sent for me.”

You glance away with a scoff, trying to hide your trembling hands. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me.” Satoru says it with the weight of years. Of stormy nights and sleepy mornings and secrets whispered under blankets. Of growing up tangled around each other like ivy, thorned and stubborn and real.

He crosses the room in three steps, boots thudding dully against the stone. He doesn’t ask before climbing in beside you. He never does. Just lifts the furs and slips beneath, his warmth bleeding into your chilled skin instantly.

“Your feet are frozen,” Satoru mutters, pressing one of your feet between his calves.

“Stop complaining,” you grumble, already pressing closer.

Outside, another crack of thunder rips through the sky. You flinch. Satoru doesn’t miss it. He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you in tight, tucking your face against his chest. His tunic smells like rain and smoke and the hint of leather — and beneath that, the familiar scent of him. Safe. Constant.