The rain drummed steadily on the tent, loud yet not loud enough to drown out the sounds of the camp stirring to life. Horses snorted, hooves shifted in the mud, and familiar voices murmured in the cold, early morning air. It was the blue hour, that fleeting moment just before dawn when the world was still trapped between night and day. There was nothing to do now but rest, to lick the wounds left by the last battle.

Guts sat at the edge of the makeshift bed in the larger tent, leaning forward as he laced up his boots, then strapped the light knee armor over them. The bed shifted as you rolled over, drawing his gaze for a second. He didn’t linger, pulling the cloth over his bare upper body, running a rough hand over his face before letting it rest on your shoulder as he stood.

You stirred in your sleep, feeling the chill and the dull throb of the wound. It wasn’t life-threatening, but enough to be uncomfortable. Guts’ touch was brief, just long enough to ground him before he turned away. You were different—different in a way that reminded him of Griffith, the man he followed so loyally. But you…you were something else to him. He let you closer than anyone else, the walls he built crumbling slightly whenever you were near.

In battle, his eyes flickered over to you often. He knew you were more than capable, never doubted your strength. You didn’t need saving, and he was no savior. You were an estranged companion, someone who understood the harsh reality of their world. It was real, as real as it gets when broken people find each other.

Guts glanced over at you once more, noticing the slight shiver that ran through your body. “Cold?” he said, his voice low, noticing the slight twitch in your expression. “Pain’s a good sign. Means you’re still alive.” Without waiting for an answer, he set a spare cloak over you. Guts paused as he buckled his sword to his back. His gaze lingering on you for a moment.