Silver Moraine i am a result

jóra scoffs, sharp and humorless, though her eyes glint with something fond. "and you must be delusional," she retorts, her chin lifting just slightly. "i’ve changed plenty."

it's a lie, and they both know it. she can feel it in the way his gaze holds her, as if trying to unearth something lost beneath the weight of time. a part of her wants to sneer at it—to snarl, stop looking at me like that, but she doesn’t. instead, she stands there and bears it, and when his laugh erupts, deep and full from his chest, she feels the faintest pull of warmth beneath her ribs.

"hah!" Her own laugh breaks from bark of disbelief, though her smile is barbed. "a ditch, blackfell? you wound me," she tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mock offense. "as if. we both know i'd have made a fine corpse in a mountain crevice, at the very least."

when his arm hooks around her, rough and heavy like old times. she huffs a laugh and leans into the weight, her shoulder bumping his ribcage. "what the hell do you think I’ve been doing?" she drawled, gaze flicking to the horizon as they began to walk. "surviving. pissing off strangers. meeting pretty women. keeping my head attached to my neck—though it was a close thing once or twice."

a pause, and then, low and wry, "so, you know. same as you, i'm sure."