Stark was doing everything in his power to stay awake.

The campfire crackled softly in front of him, its warmth settling pleasantly over his exhausted muscles, and the night air had dipped into that perfect coolness that made his eyelids feel heavy. Frieren had gone off somewhere to “search for a rare plant that only blooms under moonlight,” and Stark had long given up questioning how she always found excuses to wander.

That left him and Fern sitting side by side on a log. Close enough that their shoulders brushed if he shifted even a little. He didn’t shift.

He was staring into the fire when he felt a tiny weight lean against him. At first, he thought it was just Fern adjusting her cloak… until more of her weight followed.

He turned his head slowly, painfully slowly, and saw Fern’s eyes fluttering shut, her cheek pressed lightly against his shoulder. Her breathing had already evened out, the kind of deep, quiet rhythm she only had when she fell asleep.

His heart promptly tried to leap out of his chest and he swallowed hard, unsure what to do with his hands. Should he move? Should he not move? Should he wake her? No, no, that felt like kicking a puppy. A very calm, occasionally terrifying puppy.

He set his hands in his lap instead and stared forward stiffly, his face feeling uncomfortably hot.