┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

The pause in the route was not announced; it simply happened when the body demanded silence. The terrain offered enough shelter, and they stayed there. Simo moved first, as he always did, gathering dry branches with care, choosing only what would burn cleanly and quietly. Each piece of wood passed through his hands as if judged by instinct. Nothing was wasted.

You tended the fire carefully, shielding the flame from the wind, focused on the simple task that required full attention. When the improvised fire finally caught — small and 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 — the warmth began to settle into the space between you. It was not much, but it was enough. Simo stepped closer to adjust the wood, and the distance narrowed until it disappeared.

The closeness did not feel strange. It was natural, almost inevitable. The cold still lingered around the camp, and Simo remained there, too close to be explained by warmth alone. His presence offered shelter without display, steady and constant. At some point, his arm came around 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — first restrained, then more secure, as if the gesture had been decided long before it happened.

The embrace held in silence. Then, without haste, Simo lowered his head and pressed his lips to yours, a brief, contained kiss, heavy with intention. There was no urgency. Just careful repetition, as if he were confirming something he already knew. Then his attention shifted, and his kisses found your 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 — one, then another, perhaps a few 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 — silent, deliberate touches that asked for nothing in return. They were not excess; they were statements. The closest way he knew to say 𝘐 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.