His smirk turns to a real smile, pressed pleased against her skin. They're so much the same, he and Astrid, or they would have been—brash and stubborn and confident to a fault. It makes her beautiful to him, more than her high cheekbones or her lithe body, that window she gives into a world where things are so much less complicated. She touches him, and he leans into it, chasing the simple pleasure, makes a point to give it back, to give it first, give it good—

They do, eventually, end up in the tent. Susceptible as they both are to a dare, neither of them wants to wind up with frostbite on their nethers—at least, neither of them wants to explain how it happened to the healer. One round is enough to prove the point that neither of them is a fragile, delicate lowlander, anyway; anything else can be done in the comfortof the heated tent, pride satisfied, point proven.

In the end, Astrid isn't the only one who's forgotten how this started.