Warmth in the Cold
Geralt of Rivia x Fem!Reader
SUGAR, SPICE & SMUT MASTERLIST
The wind howled like a dying animal through the wooden beams of Kaer Morhen, slipping between the cracks and rattling the shutters. Snow pressed heavy against the stone walls, and the embers in the hall hearth were choking out beneath the weight of hours passed.
But his door wasn’t locked.
It never was.
You stood in the hallway barefoot, fingers clenched around the edges of your shawl. Your breath fogged in the dark, and when you looked down at your hand, it trembled.
You weren’t cold. Not really. Not just that.
You just couldn’t sleep.
And there was something unbearable about the sound of wolves in the woods when you didn’t know if the one inside these walls would ever look at you the way you looked at him.
The door creaked when you pushed it open, soft like you meant to turn back.
But Geralt didn’t speak. Didn’t stir.
He was awake. You knew that.
You didn’t ask permission. You just crossed the room slowly, the wood floor colder than stone. And when you reached the bed, you paused — long enough to let him object. Long enough to run.
But still, he didn’t move.
And so you crawled under the thick woolen furs beside him, not touching. Just there. Just close.
The fire was already lit in his hearth. His body already warm.
You didn’t even know if he wanted this.
But he let you.
—
“You should be asleep,” his voice broke through the dark after long minutes. Low. Rough. Barely a whisper.
“I couldn’t.” You kept your eyes on the ceiling beams. “The cold got in again.”
A beat of silence. The kind that always stretched too far with him.
“I lit the fire,” he said.
You swallowed. “I know.”
He turned onto his side. You felt the mattress shift beneath you, but you still didn’t look.
“I’m not asking for anything, Geralt,” you said. Your voice didn’t shake. Not quite. “I just… couldn’t be alone tonight.”
He didn’t answer.
But you felt the warmth of his body come closer, just slightly. Not touching — but enough to feel the heat rise against your skin like the promise of something he wasn’t going to give voice to.
That was how he was. Always.
—
You woke up hours later, curled in the hollow space where his body had been.
The fire was out. The room ice-cold.
And Geralt was gone.
—
You sat up slowly, heart pounding even though nothing had happened. Nothing ever happened. That was the curse. That was the trap.
Your hand reached for the blanket where he’d been — it was still faintly warm.
The wind screamed again outside the fortress, and your breath hitched. The cold hit you this time, bone-deep.
You pulled the blanket tighter and told yourself not to cry.
—
You found him in the stables an hour later. Shirtless, wiping sweat from his brow, practicing sword swings with a rage that didn’t match the hour.
“Geralt.”
He didn’t stop. His jaw clenched tighter.
You stepped into the hay-strewn space, snowflakes still tangled in your lashes.
“You left.”
He didn’t turn around. “I had things to do.”
“There’s frost on the walls.”
He turned slowly then. Face unreadable. Muscles flexing in the early light.
You hated how beautiful he looked in the cold.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” he said finally.
Your stomach dropped. “I know.”
“I didn’t promise you anything,” he added, tone like steel.
“I know.”
Then silence again.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, fighting the sting in your chest. “Was it that unbearable? Me beside you for a night?”
His expression flickered, just for a second. Pain, maybe. Or guilt.
“No,” he said quietly. “It was… too bearable.”
That broke you more than cruelty would’ve.
—
You turned to leave.
You weren’t going to beg him. Not now. Not ever.
But then — his voice again, behind you, quieter this time.
“You smell like apples.”
You froze in the doorway. “What?”
“Your skin.” He paused. “You smell like spiced apples. Like home.”
You turned back slowly.
He was standing there like a man at war with himself, fists clenched, eyes down.
“You were warm,” he said. “And I— I didn’t want to need that.”
The ache cracked through your ribs.
“I’m not asking you to need me,” you said softly. “I’m just asking you not to punish me because you do.”
His eyes met yours then.
And for a moment, you thought he might come to you. You thought the distance would close.
But he just nodded once.
And you left him there — again — in the cold.
—
That night, you lit your own fire.
And locked your own door.
And tried not to remember how it felt — warmth beside steel.
Sugar in the mouth of a wolf.
A hearth that burned out before morning.
