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The storm had rolled in slowly, casting a thick blanket of gray clouds over the mountains, the winds whispering warnings through the trees. You stood outside the small inn, watching the rain begin to fall, your mind too tangled with thoughts to care about the cold droplets soaking through your clothes. It wasn’t the storm that unsettled you—it was him.
Geralt of Rivia.
You could hear him inside, moving around restlessly, his heavy boots pacing back and forth on the wooden floors, the creak of every step echoing in your chest. You didn’t want to face him again, not after everything. You had left him behind for a reason. Too many nights spent in the shadow of his brooding silence, too many unspoken words, too many times where you wondered if he even saw you, felt the same things you did. And now, here he was, chasing you down like some elusive contract, as if you were something to be hunted, to be caught.
The door opened behind you, and you didn’t have to turn to know it was him. His presence was unmistakable—the way the air seemed to grow heavier, the way your body reacted to him, no matter how much you tried to fight it. You stiffened, gripping the railing in front of you, refusing to look back.
“Don’t walk away from me again,” his voice was low, gravelly, yet it held a rawness you hadn’t heard before. There was an edge of desperation there, one that caught you off guard.
You closed your eyes, swallowing hard before you spoke. “I can’t do this anymore, Geralt. You know that.”
There was a pause, a long silence where all you could hear was the rain hitting the roof of the inn and the sound of your own heartbeat. Then, you heard him move closer, his footsteps slow, deliberate, until he was standing just behind you. His presence loomed like the storm itself, but you refused to turn, to meet his gaze.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I never knew how to… how to be what you needed.”
You shook your head, the words striking something deep inside of you, but you pushed it down, the ache too familiar. “You didn’t even try.”
Silence again. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, and just when you thought he might walk away, you felt something else. A shift.
You turned then, eyes widening as you saw him—Geralt, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken—on his knees before you. His silver hair hung in wet strands around his face, his eyes—those piercing, unreadable eyes—were fixed on you, full of something you couldn’t quite place. Regret. Pain. Desperation.
“Don’t leave,” he said, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Not like this.”
Your heart slammed in your chest, your mind reeling at the sight of him, of Geralt on his knees, begging. You had never seen him like this—so vulnerable, so open. It was as if the walls he kept around himself had crumbled, and all that was left was the raw truth of his feelings.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know how to make this right. But I need you. I can’t—” He broke off, shaking his head as if the words were too much. “I can’t do this without you.”
Your breath hitched, your chest tightening painfully as you stared down at him, every part of you warring with itself. You had dreamed of him saying these things, of him seeing you like this, but now that it was happening, you didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know if you could trust it.
“You always push me away,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You push me away and then act like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”
His head dropped slightly, the weight of your words heavy between you both. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tense, but he didn’t rise. Didn’t move. “You do matter,” he said, his voice strained. “More than anything. I was too blind to see it, too scared to admit it. But I can’t lose you. I won’t.”
The rain fell harder now, soaking both of you, but neither of you moved. The world seemed to narrow down to just this moment, just the two of you, the storm raging around you like the one inside your heart.
Slowly, you knelt in front of him, your eyes searching his face, trying to find some trace of the truth. His eyes met yours, and you saw it—every unsaid word, every moment he had pushed you away out of fear, every feeling he had tried to bury deep inside.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’m not asking for perfection,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I just wanted you to let me in.”
His eyes opened, and the intensity of his gaze nearly took your breath away. “I’m letting you in now,” he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m begging you, stay.”
The rain continued to fall, but it no longer mattered. You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, his grip almost desperate, as if he were afraid you might slip away.
“I’m not perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”
Your heart ached with the weight of his words, the vulnerability in his voice. Slowly, you nodded, your lips ghosting over his in a soft, tender kiss, one filled with all the things you couldn’t say. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
And in that moment, with the storm raging around you and Geralt of Rivia on his knees for you, everything else faded away. There was only him, only you, and the promise of something more. Something real.
“I forgive you,” you whispered against his lips. “But don’t make me regret it.”
He pulled you tighter, his voice rough with emotion as he kissed you again, deeper this time, full of a need that was undeniable. “Never,” he vowed, his lips moving against yours. “Never again.”