Chapter Text
The ground is hard and cold - Dirty, grimy.
The gross texture of mud clung to Stark’s face. His eyes were seeing stars from the fall he took. An iron tang, faintly, sits on his tongue. Everything is happening really slowly now.
“I'd better head back. I wouldn't want Lord Lügner to get upset with me.”
That creature is shameless; it won’t even bother killing him properly. Just left him to bleed and squirm like a worm. Is this it? Stark thinks.
With guilt, he looks past the memories of his master. Asking him to get back up. He should be embarrassed. Master Eisen would be disappointed to see the state he is in. The sudden flashback made him feel like he had an apparition before his near-deathbed.
That’s so cliché, his vision blurs as his eyes start to close.
Fern. That demon is going to go after Fern. His heart drops to his stomach, suddenly able to pump faster. Move, he thinks, get back up. Not to win, but because he promised.
Vaguely, he can see her silhouette in the air. Flying up above like she’s a fairy dancing in front of the moon. Her spells and that demon's are a spectacle, like fireworks to behold.
Focus, Stark. Don't let that thing get away.
His bones ached when he stood up again. His lungs felt constricted when he sucked air in, like a force was pushing down on his chest.
Fern. Strong, valiant Fern isn’t done fighting. He promised to buy her time as she fought the stronger demon. Don’t panic, warriors shouldn't panic, he tried to calm himself as his hands trembled; his sweat making his grip falter.
The feminine demon summoned her axe again. Eyes locked on his as she lunged forward. It’s now or never.
Heart moving up to his throat, blood rushes to his ears, and he inhales weakly. Please let one strike be enough.
Arms raised, Stark swings forward. His axe was desperately tearing the creature apart.
There’s an unmistakable scent of ash. A wave of heat hits his face whenever the remains monster disperse. The creature doesn't say anything. Or at least he doesn’t hear it speak.
His vision fogs in one eye and blurs in another. The sparks of the spells still decorate the sky, twinkling in his vision. Stark’s knees hit the ground, head continues to spin.
On reflex, his hands sit on the ground to hold himself up. His nails dig into the dirt so he can ground himself. Was the moon half full tonight? Did the castle look like that? He-
“Mister Stark"
Fern. Still floating above the castle, she starts to lower herself. She did it. Strong, valiant Fern fought off the demon lord that was plaguing the castle. Bashfully, he realizes he has another reason to watch himself around her. She’s even more of a hero than he is.
“Mister Stark!” She’s louder this time. “Sorry?” he mumbles. “You’re even bloodier than before,” she exclaims. “Tis fine. I’m sure this is just part of fuh-ting a demon.” Stark slurs his words, his tongue a little stung from tasting blood beforehand. “I’m fine,” he whispers, his legs starting to wobble when he lifts himself.
“Mister Stark, be careful,” Fern holds onto his shoulder, trying to keep him balanced. He leans his other shoulder against a tree, twisting himself to have his back against the bark. “Hold on, Miss Fern,” he says, sliding down to the floor. He’s definitely a little out of it, Fern thinks after he uses an honorific.
“It’ll just take me a second,” he mumbles as he starts to unfurl the makeshift bandages on his hand. “Do you know how to deal with those?” Fern asks meekly, her knees touching his. Stark flinches, unaware Fern was coming close to sit with him. “At some point, my master taught me how to deal with injuries, for whenever I would get them.”
Focused on hiding his pain, Stark puts pressure on the opening on his waist – where the demon struck right before it died. Maybe he shouldn’t have–
A cloth touches him, his eye instinctively closing at the action. “You have blood here,” Fern spoke. Her handkerchief gently brushed him, where he remembered the foe’s axe scratching him. She pats down his face, softly. The warmth of the cloth is comforting, along with a scent he isn’t familiar with. A scent like a flower; girlish and sweet.
Strong, valiant, and now soft Fern.
Timid and reluctant, Stark recalls Fern holding his hand for the first time. She didn’t know him at all; she was bold enough to say that he wouldn’t run away. Even bolder, she said he had resolve. Little does she know, he might just try and run right now; his resolve is constantly put to the test. The only reason his “resolve” hadn’t broken is because he felt in debt to her. Her advice brought him out of his state of resignation. Unfamiliarity was scary to him, too. No one had cleaned up his face like this before, like he’s delicate.
Was this unfamiliar to her, too? Did her hands tremble like his did when she fought? Or when she made herself do something new?
“All better now,” Fern moved her hand away. “Let’s find Mistress Frieren by the time the sun comes back up.”
No, she never experiences that.
Wearing expensive silk was very different.
The waltz routine, the etiquette lessons, the diet, the corset. All of it had been hell for the past month. But a silk dress.
Fern wouldn't indulge in expensive silk, admire herself in the mirror when she spins. But she’s just a girl, a rationale she was sticking with to avoid feeling incredulous. In a lavish and dream-like lifestyle, Fern would never wear silk like this freely. Live a life of spoils. Before tonight, Fern would have never thought that she would crave such a thing.
One month was grueling, a long time, and Fern would never admit that there was a part of her that started to see herself fit in it more and more. Tonight, she was treated like what she had been training for. A little bit of a princess. And really, she didn’t enjoy herself one bit.
She didn’t enjoy the faint compliments. The way her hair was adorned perfectly into a bun. The sound of the violin with the pitter-patter of her heels on the tile of the luxurious ballroom.
“We practiced. We might as well dance.” Stark smiled, his crooked grin gleaming. She remembers his carefree cadence when he got on his knee to ask for her hand. Almost enviously, it was beyond Fern how he remained so calm and collected. The way he gently guided her onto the floor, like he had done this a million times before. How could he not be nervous? Is he good at hiding it like she is?
And even though it may have been the millionth time both had practiced this waltz, it hadn’t set in what she was about to do with him.
She hadn’t realized she was going to be pressed up against him. That their bodies would touch chest-to-chest. She hadn’t realized that he was going to hold his firm grasp on the small of her back. Hold her tight with his other hand, fingers intertwined with hers.
Really, she didn’t get nervous. Stark, making her nervous with his grasp, wasn’t happening to her. She wasn’t worried she would mistep, somehow embarrass herself in front of him. And she wasn’t feeling better with him either. Once he spun her the first time, she noticed his hand shook a bit when he held her back. A small comfort, knowing maybe he had gotten anxious holding her.
And then, just as suddenly as he had asked her to dance, he let her go. Lost in the moment, she didn’t start to miss him. Really, I don’t miss him, she told herself.
Try as she might to deny it, tonight was wonderful. She didn’t lose herself to the dance after the first song. She didn’t end up indulging in the rest of the night.
That isn’t why she is considering holding on to the silk glove she just wore. Nor is it the reason she’s upset that she lost one of them during the night.
She can hear the chattering of guests on the floor as she sits back down. She knows any moment now, Stark and Misstress Frieren will receive their reward, and she won’t have to wear such a beautiful dress or have to be close to him again. It’s not disappointing at all.
And even though it’s been a couple of minutes, Fern thinks she’ll remember Stark’s embrace for a long time. Aggravatingly, she admits to herself only in the comfort of her thoughts, tonight was like a dream. Damn it, she’s keeping the glove.
The breeze of the cold night caused Fern to shiver.
Despite her red cheeks and warm forehead, she had been suffering from chills the entire day. The fabric of the sheet was barely enough to give her any relief. “Fern?”
“Yes, Mister Stark?” She shivers. “Are you sure you don’t want my sheet?” He asked. “Mister Stark, I said I’m o-okay. You n-need to be warm, too.” Stark almost laughs. Fern might be a bit cute, but mostly miserable, when her teeth shatter. “Alright then, let me give you some of my warmth, then.” Stark shuffles closer to her, wrapped in his blanket, and he settles shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
“Mister Stark,” Fern barely whispers. “Fern?” He asks, half expecting she’ll lecture him on not being able to respect personal space. There’s a pause. “Ferrrn?” He hums, “Thank you,” she exhales. The way she snuggles her sheet and her shivering stopping suddenly doesn’t go unnoticed.
Stark grins a little. Yes, she gave up!
As he huddles a little closer, Fern’s breathing slows down. A little closer, he tests the waters to see if she'll react. “Fern?” He whispers. Fern only breathes gently.
Stark leans his head on the tree bark. “Goodnight, Fern," he mumbles.
The little town of Ursa seemed charming at first.
It seemed like a quick spot for a rest, and boring enough that Misstress Frieren wouldn’t have them stuck for months on end. And perhaps best of all, the scent of pastries intoxicated the air.
A rest was overdue, indeed.
“We would like two rooms, please.” Mistress Frieren asked at the inn’s entrance. “We have two rooms with one bed for the lovely couple,” the innkeeper smiled.
“Oh, no no no! We’re not-" Fern stumbled, her cheeks a dark shade of red. “The three of us would like to be separated, actually,” Frieren interjected “, I'm the girl’s guardian.”
“Oh, dear. I'm sorry, but I-”
“No matter”
“Oh, I mean. There’s only one bed in each room."
“Frieren, I can find somewhere else. You and Fern can stay here.” Stark spoke up; the pink tint on his neck and ears didn’t go unnoticed. “Oh. Thank you, then," Frieren replied.
Fern watches Stark's silhouette disappear into the crowd. His bright red hair was flowing in the air. Maybe-
“Fern," Mistress Frieren speaks.
“I wanted to stop here because the area is good for training. We can practice some defensive magic before the exam,” she explains.
Right. We’re here before we reach the exam that will guarantee their travel to the Northern Plateau. Being close to Mistress Frieren's power seemed implausible to her, but she still wanted to practice under her.
There was no doubt in Fern's mind that Mistress Frieren could pass the exam easily, but to have to carry her along seemed like a chore. And despite how often the thought of her being a dead weight to her party came into her mind, she grew exhausted of the notion.
She always shook her head when the feeling arose. And it only seemed to worsen whenever she was around him. Stark seemed to guide that feeling into her. Often, she wondered if, compared to his strength if he even considered her useful.
She hadn’t quite run into many men during her time with Master Heiter, but she knew when she met Mister Stark, he was a bit different - and she never knew why.
She wanted to ask him, but couldn’t bring herself to. She wanted to ask if he ever thought of her as worthy or worthless - but somehow felt like she was out of line. Somehow felt like she was intimidated by him, even though he most likely didn’t mean to. Deep down, maybe his response scares her.
“Fern, out in the woods, I want us to practice. I’m not saying it’s all combat for the exam, but you should know mages are particularly friendly with each other."
“Yes, Mistress Frieren.”
The rocks underneath her boots shook. Slowly and gently at first, then fast and sharp. Villagers in the distance seemed to start shouting, distressed.
Something is coming, quickly.
“Mistress Frieren, do you hear that?”
There’s more screaming, and the world continues to shake. The ground rumbles like the earth might split open.
“Fern, let’s go," Frieren started floating, her student following apace. The village wasn’t so far away from the woods, they should be able to make it before-
A blast was heard, steady and loud. A sudden strike that was virile. There was Stark at the edge of the town. His silhouette was an easy shape in the fog created by the action. She couldn’t mistake him now for anyone else after traveling with him for so long. His figure relieved her, at least for a moment. Knowing that the village was safe as long as he was present.
She could already imagine him shaking, though. Worried that he would have to fight again, unaware of how everyone already perceived him as youthful and strong.
The smoke cleared, red and black locks flowing. There's a tint in the silver of his axe. The townsfolk were hiding behind their wooden stands, some behind tables at the small restaurant.
When Fern and Mistress Frieren finally land, one of the children hiding behind a stand comes out. “Young boy!” Someone else cheers. A crowd starts to gather, a girl shoving Fern's shoulder. “Huh?”
Fern blushes, realizing everyone in town must have witnessed a spectacle of a lifetime. Mostly the women of the town, it seemed. “Oh, no, no, it was nothing,” she thinks she can see Stark's mouth move; his cheeks a bashful shade of pink.
Fern can’t help but watch. There’s a girl with blonde hair, and another one with bright green eyes. She steps closer, trying to make sure this isn’t a figment of her imagination. They seem to be very attentive to whatever he’s saying, eyes flickering between his mouth and shoulders.
Hmph. Stark is just a companion. There’s no reason to notice even another woman around him.
“Hm. It seems we could have kept training. I’m proud of him.” Mistress Frieren speaks. Fern stated a little too long, expression a tad too fierce. “So am I.”
Having her room was more frivolous than she recalled. She found relief in not having to bear Mistress Frieren's snoring. The inn's room even had a vanity mirror.
Fern studied her face in the reflection. Her glassy, purple eyes furrowed. She didn’t have rosy cheeks, just cold, pale skin. Her nose is small and her lips are thin. She didn’t consider herself to be unattractive, but there she was, nothing special. Her purple hair was straight and simple, never bothering to do anything with it. Fern’s fingers stroked her hair, hands cupping her strands into a firm ponytail.
She thought of Stark’s bright red eyes. His eyes matched his hair he never had to do anything with. She thought of the thick jacket he seemed to wear everywhere. He looked solid, already appearing strong just by standing. She didn’t want to be unkind enough to just call him un-special, but in between his heroics and the privilege of being a man, he didn’t have to be.
When she first saw him, she doubted him. But she couldn’t deny he could pull off the facade, if he had to. His eyes have a tint that hers don’t. His mannerisms of a selfless person. Coming from a master and a village of warriors, she knew Stark was born special. He didn’t have to try to kill that dragon all those months ago; he didn’t have to try and save the day, or try to get attention from the townsfolk today. It must be nice to be easily strong.
Now that she recollects, she's not sure Stark found a place to spend the night. She thought he was capable and, of course, deserved to enjoy his evening. Stark is just a companion; there’s no reason for her to feel anything towards him. She took a deep breath in, ignoring the tension she felt sink down her spine.
Curiosity tugged at her. Perhaps she should go look for him, even if he gave her butterflies in her stomach. Fern grabbed the hair clip Mistress Frieren had gifted her, making sure it clasped her hair into a firm tail before she left. The tension in her body coiled. Even if she wants to deny it, if she gets nervous, she wants to go find him.
She never wanted to worry over him, not because she knew he could handle himself, but because she wondered if her emotions were in vain. Would Stark worry without trying to? Would he care about others carelessly, or would he try to be considerate of others?
She slid the door open, slowly and quietly, to avoid disturbing anyone. The wood creaked underneath her feet as she approached the stairs. Once she reaches the bottom, she sees the small lady of the inn, still awake.
“Madam?” The woman asked. “Yes?” Fern replied. “That boy who I thought was your betrothed. He saved someone today, so they offered up their room for him, if you find him.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.” Fern smiled. Now she had even more of a reason to find him. There it was again, his ability to make people appreciate him. He never did anything intending to gain something back; Fern knew he was kind like that.
But she wondered, deeply, does he try anyway? Was his kindness something he wanted to practice, or was he born selfless, too? If it came to it, would he try for her even if he didn’t have to? Would he come looking for her, too?
Fern always tried to be kind. It always took her effort to be up to par. She didn't want to burden anyone, and if anything, felt like she was in debt to her masters. She felt the way she had been educated was to be such. Kind and proper. It wasn't until Mistress Frieren had taken her in that she stopped being called rude or worse, unladylike. Back when she advised Mistress Frieren to look for another warrior when Stark confessed, she fondly thinks Master Heiter would have corrected her.
Fern's grasp tightened around her staff as she kept walking downtown. For sure, Stark is being celebrated still. She remembers the night they set the town of Grant Granat’s domain free. People were praising him until he laughed and blushed. She noticed that day that she loved his laugh.
Distantly, the memory sounded like it came to life as she heard a crowd. The clinks of mugs and laughter were present. The lights of the town adorn the square. There’s the smell of pastries that Fern recognizes from when they first entered Ursa.
Just as expected, Stark was at the center of it all. He’s sitting stiffly on a wooden chair, and he seems to be talking as the villagers pay close attention. There's a small girl approaching him, handing him a blue flower. Another person encourages him to drink when they place a mug next to him. “Aw, thank you,” he smiles. There it is again, he's heroic and sweet. And to make it worse, it seems so natural to him.
There’s a tug in her, the curiosity to see him. Almost like there's an invisible string between them. She feels her chest curl, more tension dripping down her spine. It was an ache she couldn’t explain. She swallowed hard, as if she had to think what to say.
Their eyes meet, and his gaze feels heavy. His grip tightens on the mug until his knuckles look white. His eyebrows raised, like he was surprised to see her. The ruby tint of his eyes twinkles, just like the first time they met. That’s all it takes for the cord between them to snap. Clearly, he’s fine. She made a mistake by trying to interrupt.
“Fern"
She turns on her heel, biting her lip. She feels her skin rise into goosebumps. It’s too cold to be doing this. He makes her far more anxious than a companion should. He’s standing now, approaching her. “Fern, where are you going?” Stark calls out again. Fern blinks. Calm yourself, she thinks. “I-I, um, just wanted to tell you that the inn has a room.”
“Oh, I was-”
Fern gasps softly when a cold liquid drips down her dress. “Oh, Fern. I’m so sorry!” He shouts, his hands shaking. “Stark, I-” she whispers. “Fern, I’m sorry,” he repeats, flustered. He grabbed a worn handkerchief from his pocket, adorned with an old stain. “Let me help you,” he continues. Fern gasps softly again and looks away in embarrassment.
A mistake. The villagers are looking, making her the new center of attention. She tried to get his attention tonight. She had to put effort into being kind or properly looking, but again, he seemed to guide the attention in the wrong direction.
“Stark, I-I’m alright.”
“No, it’s cold, too.” Stark takes off his jacket and places it above her shoulders. The wool inside his coat was a sudden comfort; she didn’t think he would do this for her. Fern blinks twice, attempting to hold in the lump in her throat. “Fern, I didn’t mean to do that, it was just my shaky hands. Are you mad?”
“I just want to go back to the inn.”
“Let me take you,” he insists.
She sees his expressions, and a piece of her melts. His face is in disquiet. “Alright.”
“Goodnight, and thank you for the meal.” Stark waves at the man who had pushed the beer onto him. Start starts to follow behind her, letting himself be guided back. Their footsteps are quiet in the town, blurred out by the party continuing behind them. “Fern, are you alright?”
“Mhm,” she hums. Stark’s footsteps become heavier, and his shoulder brushes up against her side. He’s looking down on her now, no longer behind her. “Are you pouting?” He asks, and Fern only shakes her head. “I mean no harm. You know that, right?”
The sincerity in his voice makes her chest tighten. She doesn’t want to flatter him, but Stark is a sweet man. In between his flaws and cowardice, he truly is selfless. He only means to help, never hurt. “Yes, I know,” she grumbles.
A breeze flows through the air, and Fern snakes her arms inside his garment. The sleeves are loose, a couple of sizes too big for her. She dives her hand into his pockets to warm up, and touches silk. Fern draws circles on the fabric, in disbelief. There’s silk inside his pocket. Where would he even get such a thing?
They certainly don’t have the money for that. She crumples the object in her hand. “Oh! That’s nothing. It’s another handkerchief!” He grabs onto her wrist, a little firm. “A silky one?” Fern pouts “, Silk is so expensive.” Fern wiggled within his grasp, pulling on the supposed handkerchief.
“I know, but silk is nice.” He explained, his grip feeling softer. “Stark, with what money did you buy it?” Fern pulled it out, relaxing her fingers to see what she had felt in her fist.
It’s the glove. The glove she thought she lost that night.
“Stark, oh my goodness.” Fern can feel the tears forming in her eyes. She would have never thought of Stark as sentimental. It was a simple glove, and not even theirs to have. It was all just an act, and he still kept it. Her heart aches, but not in pain. It’s an ache she’s never felt before, like she suddenly realized a part of it was missing.
She felt so ridiculous keeping a glove herself. She thought that night must have meant nothing to him. Just a miserable month of training to suck up for one night of awkward dancing. Did he remember that night like she did?
Fern held the glove in both hands as she extended it. The garb is still a milky white, with no signs of grime or wear. The strings of it are still in their place, even if that night feels like it was forever ago. All this time, he took care of her glove. Blushing, she recalls holding Stark’s hand when they danced. She was too embarrassed to acknowledge that she had grown sick of the fabric in that moment and wanted to touch Stark’s skin badly.
“Silk suits you. I just wanted to find another one to match, I didn’t mean to steal-”
Fern’s pout turns into a choke, biting back a sob with all her strength. “Stark, I would have never thought you’d keep this.”
“Are you upset?” he reaches to hold the back of her hand, her palm holding the glove. “No, of course not,” she lifts her gaze away from the glove and at him. She watches him reach out and push a strand of hair behind her ear. “Fern, you'll get sick if you keep standing with a wet dress in the cold.”
“Okay. Let's go.”
At the inn, Stark opened the large wooden door for Fern, allowing her to go in first. The lady was gone. The inn was dimly lit with a couple of candles. Fern approached one, holding the tiny flame in her hands. “If you need me to find my room on my own, it’s okay. You can go to bed.”
“Oh. No, it's alright. You might wake someone up, so come with me.”
The wooden floor creaked. They hesitantly stepped onto the stairs that would squeak despite their best efforts to stay quiet. Up to the second floor, Fern beckoned Stark to follow her to a door. “This is my room,” she said, shuffling in her pocket for the keys, the little jingle appearing loud.
The lock moaned in age, making them both jump. “Let’s be quick before someone calls us a couple again,” he mumbled. Fern rolled her eyes. She slid the door carefully, trying her best not to let it hit the wall.
There was a smell of firewood and a wave of ice. There’s a small bed and a wool carpet near the fireplace; the room is simple and soft.
“This room is freezing,” he whispered. “I don't have a fire spell," Fern spoke ", but hopefully this candle helps us.”
She approached the fireplace. “We just need to blow on it when you light the right stick,” Stark got on his knees, his hands rummaging through the wood. “Try lighting this up," he held a thick piece.
Fern knelt, letting the flame touch the piece. Stark blew on it softly. He used his other hand to cover the flare as he tried to light the rest of the wood. A fire slowly started, warmth spreading.
“I can turn around if you have to change," he offered.
“Thank you.”
Stark stood up quickly, offering his hand to lift her. She took his hand gently. They locked eyes again. His hand is firm, soft, and warm with the yarn of his fingerless glove. His thumb rubbed her hand, and she felt her heart blossom.
Stark stepped to the edge of the room, letting her fingers slip. He turned around to face the wall. Fern stepped back and went to the vanity.
She grabbed her nightdress from the cabinet quickly. She catches Stark covering his eyes with his hands. She smiles, expecting no less. She removed the jacket first; she paid close attention to not losing the glove in his pocket. The long sleeves comforted her after a chilly evening. She was happy to touch warm, dry fabric finally.
“I’m done,” she said as she took off her boots and socks. “I've never seen your hair like that,” he turned around “, it looks nice.”
“Thanks,” she pulled the clip from her hair, “it was certainly tight, though." Her purple locks fell down her shoulders, framed her face, and covered one of her eyes. “It looks nice like that, too," he responded.
Fern rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. The thought of complimenting her being frivolous, too. He rolled his shoulders as he sat down. He lies down on the carpet, his head resting on his hand.
Fern moved the pillow from the bed, revealing the other silk glove. She walked towards him with it, both gloves now fisted in her hands. She knelt next to him. The fire grew slowly.
Stark's face was lit in yellow, his eyes reflecting the fire. Fern studied him attentively, watching his skin glow as he relaxed. She rummaged through the sheets and lifted her pillow.
Fern walked over to him and kneeled next to him. The wool of the carpet felt frizzy on her knees. In her hand, she held more silk, revealing her secret. “You had the other one?” Stark noticed ",so you are a bit sentimental?”
Fern pouted, her smile shifting away. “Oh. Sorry, Fern. I don’t mean to bother you.”
It's funny, to her, how a simple apology could do so much. The first time he had apologized was when they were stuck on a snowy night. It was when he'd touched her cheek with his cold hands, but the power on her shoulder was what had upset her.
She jumped up, on guard. As if she hadn’t registered, it was Stark. Fern can barely admit the way he makes her feel in general, much less admit that he intimidated her. As soon as she pouted, he broke like a dam.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he poured out. And it only made matters worse. Instead of being frustrated, she found him earnest. His apology made her heart break for being rude, but fluttered because never had a man interested her so much.
“You never mean much, do you?” She sat next to him, her back touching his abdomen. She extended her hands, trying to warm up. “Um, I guess. But I never want to offend you. I try my best not to."
Fern didn’t respond, the stutter in her heart racing. “Why did you keep the glove?” He inquired as he sat up to lean his head into her, mouth dangerously close to her ear. “It’s a nice glove,” she deflected. “It is a nice pair," he agreed ",You looked wonderful that night."
Fern put on one of the gloves and slid it over her fingers. The silk is soft like she remembers. It’s smooth and lavish. That night really was wonderful. “Why did you keep yours?” Fern muttered.
“Same reason as you.”
A silence follows. The room grows orange in light, and finally, the icy temperature rises. Fern shudders; she feels herself lean into him. “Actually, I do have another reason to keep the gloves around," he mumbled, almost like he hoped she wouldn't hear.
“What is it?” She turned to him. “I kept because I-,” his ears turned red, and his eyes were half-lidded. “I kept it because I want to be able to give you something.”
“What do you mean?” she tilted her head. “I mean, I make you upset at times. I want you to think I can be nice," he finished.
Like wax from the candle, Fern melts. Her heart is warm, growing. That’s what that ache was. She blushes deeply.
“What is it, Fern?”
“I do think you’re nice. You’re nice to everyone, Stark.”
Stark blinks once, then twice. He’s cheeks turn into a shade of light pink. But his eyes are still bright, the ruby fascinating her. “I always thought you were a gentleman. I knew you meant no harm, and I think you’re strong.”
Stark heaves. Fern does, too. She’s never spoken to him like this. She feared his rejection. That’s why she could never admit to her fears that she was useless, or that she grew jealous of his natural charm. She digs her fingers into the carpet out of nerves.
“I would like it if you thought the same of me, Stark."
“Fern, I always thought, since I met you, that you’re wonderful. You might think I’m a strong man, but that’s all I am. You're a lot of things, Fern. You’re kind, you’re smart, you’re braver than me.”
There it was again. He so easily made her swoon. She wondered, again, does he tries to make her nervous or is it natural to him?
“Stark…thank you.” She leaned into his neck, his jaw brushing the top of her head. His collar and throat are warm; she wonders if he’s blushing.
Looking down, she notes Stark's hand close to hers. Hers still gloved, she thinks they could hold hands again like that night. She melts more; her eyelids feel heavy, her muscles unfurling.
"Are you alright?" She hears Stark's chest rumble when he speaks.
“Yes, I’m alright,” she whispers. She exhales, her vision closing. She feels Stark's chest rising and lowering evenly. The firewood cracks, the room gets hotter. It's the only noise she hears besides Stark's breathing. She thinks she'll never admit how comfortable his chest is. She inhales and exhales one last time. Slowly, softly, they are lulled to sleep.