The crackle of the fire was the only sound between you and Sandor. The night stretched wide and dark over the forest, cold biting at your skin even with the flames licking the sky. He sat across from you, his broad shoulders casting flickering shadows. You caught him looking—again.

His gaze wasn't filled with the usual gruff irritation or sharp edge. There was something quieter, softer in those dark eyes, though Sandor would probably rather swallow a sword than admit it. You shifted under his stare, unsure what to make of it.

"You keep lookin' at me like that, you'll burn a hole through my face," you teased, trying to cut the thick tension.

He grunted, his lips twitching as if fighting a smirk. "Don't flatter yourself," he muttered, though his voice lacked the usual bite.

Silence settled again, heavy and strange. The Sandor you knew was sharp-tongued, brutal when needed, and distant. But here by the fire, something had changed—something he was clearly grappling with and losing to.

"You scared?" he asked suddenly, voice rough but sincere.

"Of what?"

He glanced at the dark woods before his gaze flicked back to you. "This... whatever comes next."