Gt one shots

Gold In The Dark

Roman hummed when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

It threaded faint and low from the kitchen, slipping under the clink of ceramic and the quiet rush of water in the sink. At normal size, someone might have missed it, but at four inches tall, Faye felt it as much as she heard it. The sound moved through the wood of the walls and floor, a low vibration sitting under everything else.

It should've made her relax.
Instead, it made her chest feel tight.

She lay in the nest he'd built for her on the couch—soft layers of blankets and folded fabric—and stared up at the uneven ceiling. Warm, dim light flickered from the candles in the living room. The snowstorm had eased off a bit, but the windows were still a blank, pale smear of white.

She should've been comfortable. She was warm. Her fingers and toes had color again. The ankle she'd twisted behind the radiator only ached now instead of screaming. Roman had stayed with her all night.

That last thought made something in her flutter and twist.

The sound of running water stopped. Roman's humming went on, softer now, as if he'd forgotten he was doing it.

She rolled onto her side, facing the back of the couch. The blanket he'd wrapped around her spilled over the edge of the cushion like a thick gray waterfall, nearly brushing the floor below. The drop from the couch was about eighteen inches at human scale—too far to jump from safely at four inches—but the blanket made a sloped ramp all the way down.

Borrowers had scaled worse things in worse conditions. A drooping blanket was practically a luxury.

She could already hear his voice in her head if he caught her: "What are you doing walking around on that ankle?" Then he'd scoop her up without asking and tuck her right back into this nest, whether she liked it or not.

He was watching her like she was fragile.
She hated feeling fragile.

Faye pushed herself up on her elbows, then carefully sat, testing her ankle as she moved. A sharp twinge shot up her leg, then faded to a dull throb.

"Still attached," she muttered, making a face. "Good enough."

Roman's humming dipped and rose from the kitchen. The smell of soap and tea drifted faintly into the living room.

She turned her head, peeking past the arm of the couch.

From here, she could only see part of him through the gap between the couch back and the doorway—his side, an arm, the loose tie of his robe hanging open over a t-shirt as he moved at the sink. His shoulders shifted with each motion, the muscles in his forearm flexing lazily as he rinsed out the mugs they'd used earlier.

He looked normal. Ordinary. A little tired, a little rumpled. Her Roman.

That weird, deep feeling tugged at her again.

It sat low in her chest, warm and unsettling. Like standing too close to a campfire: comforting, but a little too intense if she thought about it too much.

She swallowed and looked away.

She'd been through worse than a cold apartment and a sprained ankle. She'd survived walls, villages, torches, cats, and winters that wanted to eat her whole. She didn't need to be swaddled and hovered over.

She needed to move. To breathe. To prove to herself that she was still... herself.

Faye scooted toward the edge of the blanket. The wool was warm beneath her, fuzzy and heavy. When she reached the drop, she got onto her stomach and reached over the edge, testing the blanket's sag.