The Firelights’ hideout was always cold this time of year—deep in the ruined underbelly of the city, where the wind cut sharp through broken walls and crumbling stone. Most of the others bundled up in extra layers, curled into makeshift nests of blankets and stolen warmth. But you… you had found a better solution.

Scar’s hammock.

It had started out as necessity—your own bedding had done little to keep the biting chill away, and Scar’s setup, nestled near the faint warmth of a lingering fire, had seemed like the best option. The first time, he had let out a low, questioning growl as you slid in beside him, but when you refused to leave, he had simply huffed and turned away, muttering something about “people and their terrible instincts.”

Now, it had become a habit.

Some nights, he was already there, sprawled across the hammock. Other times, he returned late, only to find you already curled up in the space, tucked against the lingering warmth of where he usually laid. He never pushed you out—never told you to leave. But he also never addressed it, never acknowledged the way he shifted just enough to accommodate you, never mentioned the way his tail sometimes curled loosely around your ankle in his sleep.

Tonight, as the wind howled through the hideout, you slipped into the hammock once again, pressing against the familiar heat of his body. Scar didn’t react at first—just an exhale, slow and steady. Then, after a moment, a soft, gravelly murmur:

“You’re getting comfortable.”