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Merlin lets out a hiss and yanks his hand from the fire, dropping the last of their supper with a stifled oath.
“What’s the matter?” Arthur demands, startled. “Is something wrong?”
“Burned my fingers,” Merlin replies shortly. It doesn’t happen often anymore, and the quick, bright pain of it was as shocking as it was unexpected. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Let me see.”
Sitting up, Arthur reaches across the space between them to take Merlin’s wrist, tugging more firmly when Merlin tries to pull away.
“You great girl,” he says, turning Merlin’s hand over gently between his own. “It’s barely a scratch.”
Still, he presses his lips to the small hurt anyway, gaze soft and amused and—infuriatingly—understanding in the light from the fire. Merlin lets out a slow breath, fingers curling over to cradle Arthur’s kiss. It’s been a long time now since he was afraid to burn.