The wind howled outside as Tormund trudged through the door, his boots heavy with mud, his body aching from the long ride back. The warmth of the fire hit him first, then the scent of something cooking—something good. His stomach grumbled, but exhaustion weighed heavier.

He barely had time to shake the snow from his furs before {{user}} turned from the hearth, her sharp gaze locking onto him. "You look half-dead," she said, crossing her arms. "Took your time getting back."

Tormund grinned, his usual cocky smirk dimmed by fatigue. "Missed me, did you?" His voice was rough, edged with exhaustion, but still teasing.

{{user}} huffed, but he caught the way her eyes flickered over him, checking for wounds, concern hidden beneath irritation. It had been like this between them from the start—barbed words masking something neither of them wanted to name.

"Sit," she ordered, motioning to the table. "Eat first, then complain."

Tormund let out a chuckle, low and tired, but obeyed. He dropped into the chair with a groan, peeling off his gloves. "Aye, bossy thing." He watched as she placed a bowl in front of him, the steam rising, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. Not at the food, but at her.

They hadn’t chosen this marriage—it had been a necessity, an alliance. At first, it had been tense, filled with arguments and cold silences. But now? Now she cooked for him, waited for him, worried in her own quiet way.

"You’re staring," she muttered, setting a cup of mead beside him.

Tormund smirked, reaching out to catch her wrist before she could pull away. His thumb brushed over her skin, rough against soft. "I was just thinking," he said, his voice quieter now. "Maybe coming home ain’t so bad after all."