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“You’re shaking,” she says, her fingers lightly trailing from his shoulder down his arm. What’s wrong?, she doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t need to. He can hear it as clearly as he knows that he doesn’t want to answer.
There’s a storm outside, raging so loudly that he’d think it’s trying to personally spite him, stealing away the comfortable feeling of his shared bed with Yennefer. The thunders echo in his ears and threaten to split his head in two, the cold lingers in his bones as he shivers in response to the owling of the wind. Somehow, he can still feel the echo of the pain of the trails, the grasses burning through his veins and yet leaving him icy and hollow.
For a few moments, he doesn’t dare to move or breathe, the weight of the straps he was held down with all too real once again.
“Just cold,” he eventually says, more lie than truth.
Even without turning to see, he can feel the displeasure radiating off her, because she doesn’t like to be lied to nor to be denied, but he doesn’t want to explain, he doesn’t want to talk, he just wants to forget it all, to disappear into her scent and not think.
He shifts before she can start pressing, turning on his other side and burying his face into her neck, one arm wrapped around her to pull her closer. He breathes her in and hopes she’ll leave it alone.
She sighs, slowly encircling him with both arms and holding onto him in return as she lays a gentle kiss on his head. “Alright,” she says, quietly.
He has never been more grateful.