“Again!?” he groaned, the window rattling from the crack of gunfire out in the fields. “Every damn morning with those idiots. Do they think quail piss gold?”

He pushed the linen off his chest, scowling at the light peeking through the shutters. Another shot rang out and he swore again, louder this time, dragging his feet to the edge of the bed.

That’s when he felt it.

Your hands—rough with calluses, still dirt-stained from yesterday’s weeding—curled around his waist and tugged him back, firm as vines reclaiming stone. You didn’t say a word, just nuzzled into the crook of his back like you had any right.

{{user}} was a gardener. The street rat Edmund’s wife once spat on. A bastard born who seemed to smell like honeysuckle and sweat, and he should’ve been ashamed.

But instead, he sighed. Long. Exhausted. Relenting like a general surrendering to the woods.

Edmund leaned back into you.

“I won’t kill them,” he muttered, curling his arm over yours, voice softening into his pillow. “Not until breakfast.”