Sandor gripped his axe a little tighter as he watched her from across the campfire, her laughter echoing across the cold night air. It was the same laugh that had distracted him before, the same smile she wore when she spoke to the others.

He couldn’t help it. The sight of her chatting so easily with the other men—their eyes lingering on her a little too long—sent a sharp, bitter twist through his chest. It was the kind of jealousy he hated to acknowledge, the kind that made him want to hit something, anything. But he held his tongue. For now.

But there she was, strolling up to him as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. The firelight danced across her face, her eyes glinting with that mischievous spark. She leaned in close, and Sandor felt the heat of her proximity like a weight pressing down on him.

“Not jealous anymore, are we?” she teased, her voice soft but edged with the sort of challenge he couldn’t ignore.

He growled low in his throat. He had no patience for this. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Sandor muttered, shifting uncomfortably as he met her gaze. His eyes narrowed, focusing on her, but his words were clipped. “Piss off with your games, girl. I got better things to worry about.”

She smirked, that damned smirk that always made him want to scream. "It was a bit much, watching you glare at me all night,” she continued, pushing his buttons deliberately. “Like you were ready to burn down the whole camp.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Sandor bit back, his voice low and dangerous. He was trying to keep control, trying to not let her see just how much it bothered him. But her words always cut deeper than she realized.

“I know enough,” she said, leaning in just a little more. “I know that you care. You didn’t like it, seeing me with them.”

Sandor clenched his fists, the jealousy flaring up again, hot and ugly. “I don’t care. Just don’t make a damn fool of yourself, alright?”