The room above the tavern was dimly lit, the glow of a single candle flickering against the worn wooden walls. The faint hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from the tavern below barely reached Geralt’s ears as he sat in the creaky chair near the window, his arms wrapped securely around Tardis, already fast asleep against his chest. The steady rise and fall of their breath was the only thing keeping him still.

Geralt exhaled quietly, his rough fingers absently smoothing over Tardis's back, ensuring they stayed warm beneath his cloak. His golden eyes flicked toward the bed, where Jaskier lay sprawled, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"You know, it’s almost sweet," Jaskier mused, voice quiet but amused. "The infamous Butcher of Blaviken, reduced to a glorified cradle."

Geralt shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it. Instead, he simply muttered, “Go to sleep. We leave at dawn.”

Jaskier huffed, rolling onto his side. “You could at least pretend to appreciate my company.”