The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the hollowed clearing where you and Sandor had set up camp for the night. The stars were distant pinpricks in the ink-black sky, but the chill in the air was very real. Your cloak did little to stop the cold from creeping in, so you inched closer to the fire, drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them.

You could hear Sandor rustling behind you—likely setting down his sword, maybe muttering to himself—but you didn’t turn around. The fire was the only comfort you had out here.

The warmth was finally starting to touch your skin when his voice cut through the stillness.

“Too close.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said you’re too close to the bloody fire,” Sandor repeated, sharper this time, his voice gravel-thick and low. “Wanna roast yourself like a chicken?”

You rolled your eyes, stubborn. “I’m freezing, Sandor. I’m fine.”

There was a pause, just long enough for you to think maybe he’d let it go. But of course, he didn’t. You felt the shift in the air behind you before you felt him—big hands reaching forward, rough palms catching the fabric of your cloak and the curve of your waist.

“Aye—what are you—?”

With one firm pull, he dragged you back a few inches, away from the flames. Not rough, but not exactly gentle either. You stumbled slightly, but his hands stayed on your waist to steady you. He didn’t let go right away.

You could feel his breath on your neck, warm and real in contrast to the night air. “Don’t care if you’re cold,” he muttered. “Not lettin’ you burn yourself like some fool. Sit here.” His grip eased, but only just, and his voice dropped lower. “Closer to me if you’re that cold.”