The wagon creaked like it had a personal vendetta against his spine. It had been weeks of travel. You couldn't find a village you'd like to settle down in. Trevor was ready to pick one and be done with it. Sypha and Alucard had settled into the castle perfectly, and they were happy the last time the two of you had checked on them. Apparently, you wouldn't be happy until you found the absolute perfect little cottage. And god help him, he'd wait until you did.

Trevor shifted with a wince, scowling at the trail ahead as if glaring hard enough might level the bumps out of existence.

“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “I’ve fought fucking demons with more compassion than this wagon’s suspension.”

You snorted beside him, reins steady in your hands. “You volunteered to sleep in the back.”

“I volunteered under the illusion I’d get laid,” he muttered.

He didn’t look over, but he felt your stare.

Trevor lifted his hand in a loose, dramatic gesture. “Four nights. Four. Of you wearing that stupid little nightshirt that barely covers your ass, crawling into my lap when you’re cold—”

“I was asleep.”

“Tell that to my self control.”

You rolled your eyes. He caught it in the corner of his vision. He’d cataloged every expression you had over the years. The way your nose twitched when you were skeptical. The sharp lift of your brow when you were amused. The soft curl of your mouth when you didn’t want to smile, but did anyway.

God, you were dangerous.

Not with fire or magic, though you possessed both, but with your steadiness. Your warmth. The fact that you still looked at him like he was worth something, even when he was sore, sour, and half feral from four nights of cold drafts and no ale.

He shifted again, groaning dramatically. “When was the last time you cast a spell for comfort? Your spine made of steel or something?”

You smirked. “Maybe I’m just not so sensitive.”

Trevor gasped, hand to chest dramatic. “Cruel woman.”

You side-eyed him. “Grumpy man.”

He slumped further into the bench, legs spread indecently wide, cloak half hanging off one shoulder like a pirate who lost his ship. He didn’t even try to fix it. You didn’t comment. You never did. Just let him be messy and sharp and yours.

A breeze stirred through the trees, cool and moss scented, laced with whatever sleepy enchantment still lived in these woods. You squinted at the road ahead, jaw set with that quiet determination that made his chest ache.

He looked at your hands.

Steady. Strong. Capable. Hands that had stitched wounds, held newborns, wrapped around the hilt of a blade, and held his broken self together. He shifted, lying on his back on the bench, head in your lap. Without saying anything, you reached out and slid your hand into his hair. Trevor nearly sighed.

You scratched lightly at his scalp, fingers weaving through the thick tangle of it. His eyes fluttered, body relaxing by instinct alone. All the tension in his shoulders bled out under your touch.

Gods above.

He would die like this.

“You love me,” he mumbled into your thigh, his voice low and lazy and accent thick, like the sun slipping through tree branches.

You smirked without looking at him. “I tolerate you.”

“Same thing,” he sighed, eyes closing.