The night in Romania was unusually still, except for the distant roars of dragons rolling across the dark mountains. A fire crackled low in the pit outside the cabins, the scent of smoke curling through the air. Charlie sat beside you, his arm draped comfortably around your shoulders, the warmth of him cutting through the chill.
He’d been telling you about the newest clutch of dragon eggs, his eyes bright and alive as always, but when the conversation faded into quiet, he shifted and pressed a kiss against your temple. The gesture was instinctive, familiar.
“I love you,” he said. His voice carried the same quiet certainty it always did, like something he’d never have to question.
Normally, you’d answer right away. But this time, you only leaned into him, your arms slipping around his waist. No words came.
For a few moments, Charlie didn’t move. The fire popped, and he stared out into the darkness as though waiting for you to speak. When you didn’t, his hand stilled against your arm.
“You didn’t say it,” he said finally, voice quiet but unmistakably firm. He wasn’t one to dance around what he felt. He faced things head-on, even when it hurt. His grip on you tightened slightly, grounding himself in the touch.
You lifted your head to look at him, and his gaze met yours — searching, intense, as if he could read the truth from your silence. The light from the fire flickered across his face, catching on the faint scars near his jaw, the lines of a man who had faced danger without blinking. Yet this, this unspoken pause, seemed to shake him far more.
“Don’t do that to me,” he muttered, his tone raw, the words almost breaking on the way out. His hand came up, rough fingers brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness. “If I’m wrong — if you don’t feel it anymore — I need to hear it from you. Not from your silence.”
The dragons cried again in the distance, a low, haunting sound against the night. But Charlie didn’t look away. His world had narrowed to you, waiting, hoping your silence didn’t mean what he feared it did.