The fire crackled like it owed me something.
Tiny, feeble, barely enough to warm a toe—but it was ours. Mine and the Dragon's. Mostly his, since he'd lit it. I coddled it, and fed it every miserable twig I could find in this piss-damp cave. He hadn't moved much. Just curled there, coiled around me like a scaled throw rug with attachment issues.
I sat barefoot, cloak wrapped tight around my shoulders, toes nearly in the flames. My ankles were cold. My pride colder.
"Do your bones still ache?" I asked, not looking at him.
He shifted, a low creak of ancient joints and sarcasm. "The ointment is working," he said. Then after a beat: "Thank you."
I sighed. Loud. Heavy. With all the theatrical weight of a woman who had been chased out of a tavern by the living embodiment of bad decisions in a tunic.
He let the silence stretch like an old lover's underpants. Then, voice softer, "I'm glad you came back. To spend the night."
I snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I wasn't." Pause. "Much."
I glared at the fire. A spark jumped out, kissed my toe, and died. Like my hopes.
"That guy," I muttered, "the hero. He came into the inn."
The Dragon lifted his head slightly. His eyes gleamed in the dark like polished judgment. "Oh?"
"Figured it out," I said. "Put it all together. Who robbed him. Who tricked him. Who left him naked on a rock with love bites and no loot."
He hummed. A low, contemplative note that echoed against the cave walls and my headache. "So. It's sleeping rough for you too."
"Apparently."
I groaned, dropped my forehead to my knees, and let out a muffled, "I had just gotten my ale."
The Dragon shifted closer, his tail curling near the fire. "I told you not to get attached to that inn."
"I wasn't attached," I said. "I was horizontal."
"You're sulking."
"I am sulking."
"Well," he said, "at least we have each other."
I peeked at him through my hair. "You're a thousand-year-old gay lizard with arthritis."
"And you," he said, "are a barefoot grifter wrapped in a blanket that smells like goat. We're perfect."
I couldn't argue with that.
The wind howled outside like it was laughing at me. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted its disapproval.
I reached into the folds of my cloak and pulled out what was left of the pine-scented ointment, passed it to him wordlessly.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't mention it."
He dabbed some on his elbow, wincing. "Next time, maybe don't hit the hero so hard."
"Next time," I said, flopping onto my back, "maybe you could wait five more minutes before making your dramatic entrance."
Another pause.
He sniffed. "I was worried."
I looked up at the black cave ceiling. "You always are."
"I'm allowed," he said, curling tighter, wings rustling. "You're all I've got."
I blinked at the shadows dancing above us.
And for once, I didn't answer.
Not with words, anyway.
I just inched closer, let my toes graze his warm belly scales.
We stayed like that.
Two liars, two thieves, two fugitives in the dark.
Trying not to feel too much.
Trying not to admit it was nice to have somewhere to come back to—even if it was just a damp hole and a cranky dragon with joint pain.
Tomorrow we'd plan the next village.
Tonight, we just sat by the fire.
And tried not to groan too loudly.
I poked the fire with a stick like it had personally failed me.
"Maybe we should fly south," I murmured. "Somewhere warm. Better for your bones."
He groaned—long, operatic, like someone had offered him a second helping of mortality. "And what of you? Back to Seebulba? Whoring?"
I didn't rise to the bait. Just shrugged, still watching the fire gutter and twitch. "Maybe. Once we get enough gold."
Pause.
"Or some gold."
That did it.
I could *feel* him tense, scales flexing with sudden unease. He shifted, talons scraping against stone, tail twitching like a cat about to knock over a vase.
"Oh no," he said. "Oh no no no no."
I sighed. "Don't start."
"You always *do* this," he hissed. "You say you'll wait till the next haul, till the big one, and then you *blow it* on silk capes and *gilded nipple rings* and scented oil you never even *open*—"
"They were on sale!"
"They were imported!"
"It was a *festival!*"
He huffed, smoke curling from his nostrils. "You think gold grows on trees? You think I just belch fire and *coins* come out? This is a *career,* Saya. A *lifestyle.* A delicate economy of fear, seduction, and not dying!"
"And I hold up *my* end of it," I snapped, glaring. "I do the dancing and the moaning and the *sacrificing*—"
"You do the *moaning* a little *too* enthusiastically sometimes—"
"Jealous?"
"Disgusted."
"Liar."
He let out a strangled sound. "I'm *not* giving you any of my gold."
I blinked. "Who asked for your gold?"
"You *implied*—"
"I didn't imply *anything!*"
"You always imply!"
"Well maybe I wouldn't if you didn't *treat your hoard like a lover with trust issues.*"
He coiled tighter, wings ruffling protectively. "It's *my* share. *Mine.* You have yours. I don't sniff around your little stash of beaded necklaces and love potions and weird masks from sex cults."
"That mask was *hand-carved!*"
"It was cursed!"
"It was *fun!*"
He covered his face with one claw like the shame of sharing a cave with me was physically painful. "You spent forty gold pieces on a mahogany box *with no key.*"
"It was *mysterious.*"
"It was *empty.*"
"And yet I regret nothing."
We glared at each other across the dying fire.
His gold was somewhere in this mountain. I didn't know where. I didn't *need* to know. He kept it hidden like a paranoid squirrel on Xanax, muttering inventory lists under his breath when he thought I was asleep. It wasn't about *using* it. It was about *having* it. Touching it. Sleeping near it.
Meanwhile, *my* gold had vanished three towns ago—melted into wine, lace, questionable jewelry, and an hour with a tanned knife-dancer named Kiro who'd licked salt off my collarbone and taught me three new words for regret.
We were both greedy.
But my greed liked fireworks and kisses and velvet cushions.
His liked coins arranged by decade and the smell of ancient metal.
"I'm not touching your stupid hoard," I said.
He sniffed. "You were looking at it with your *tone.*"
"Oh please."
"I *know* that tone."
I rolled my eyes and flopped onto my back. "Your share is your share, you cranky lizard. Mine is mine. It disappears because I *live,* not because I count."
He muttered something about *wanton disrespect for fiscal reality* and *dragons going extinct for a reason.*
I closed my eyes.
"Just… sleep," I said. "We'll argue about my spending habits in the morning, like a normal cursed couple."
"Not a couple," he grumbled automatically.
"Whatever lets you sleep, hoardlord."
He snorted.
But a moment later, I felt his tail shift just a little closer to me, curling slightly over my ankles.
Warm.
Annoying.
Predictable.
And home.
I didn't say anything else.
Neither did he.
Because the fire was nearly out. The night was thick around us.
And tomorrow, we'd fly again.
Maybe south.
Maybe not.
But definitely *together.*
Even if we never agreed on how to spend the loot.
I lay there in the silence for a while, pretending to sleep, the way you do when the argument isn't quite over but both sides are too tired to reload.
The fire had died down to a whimper. Just ember breath and smoke curling toward the cave ceiling like old gossip.
And yet.
It itched at me.
I opened one eye.
"So," I said casually, "where *is* this famous hoard of yours, anyway?"
The Dragon didn't even lift his head. "Wouldn't you like to know, Miss Harlot."
I propped myself up on one elbow, cloak slipping down just enough to weaponize a collarbone. "I *would,* actually. We've been partners for ages now. I've seen you molting, snoring, whining about shin splints. But not once—not *once*—have I seen the fabled Dragon Hoard."
He groaned. "Gods, you're like a rash that asks questions."
"Come on," I coaxed. "I've shown you *everything.* My scars, my stretch marks, my birthmark shaped like a questionable fruit—"
"That's a pear."
"It's *debatable.*"
He curled tighter, wings folding in, face half-buried in his forearms like a sullen teenager. "It's a *dragon* thing, Saya."
"That's not an answer."
"It's *cultural.*"
"Bullshit."
He let out a huffy breath. "You wouldn't understand."
I blinked at him. "Try me."
"It's private. Sacred. Instinctual."
"You sound like a priest describing his sock drawer."
He cracked one golden eye open and glared at me. "We *hoard.* It's what we *do.* We don't *share* it. We don't *display* it. We *hide* it, and we *feel things* about it. It's not for you. It's not for anyone. It's *mine.*"
I raised a brow. "You sleep on it naked, don't you?"
Silence.
I grinned. "Oh my gods, you do."
"I *don't.*"
"You do."
He bared his teeth. "You slept with a barmaid for half a jar of olives."
"They were *imported!*"
"I *hate* you."
I wiggled my toes near the embers. "You love me."
He rolled his eyes, but his tail didn't move away from my ankles.
Typical.
"Fine," I said, settling back onto the stone floor. "Keep your stupid hoard. I hope it rusts."
He sniffed. "Gold doesn't rust."
"I hope *you* do."
"Already am."
I closed my eyes again and whispered into the dark, "One day I'll find it."
"No," he muttered. "You won't."
"Watch me."
His wings rustled softly.
"Touch it," he said darkly, "and I *will* turn you into a pile of tasteful ash."
"Promise?"
"Goodnight, Saya."
"Goodnight, Scrooge."
And with that, we drifted back into silence.
The kind that clings to you. Familiar. Irritating. Comfortable.
A greedy girl.
A neurotic dragon.
And a secret hoard somewhere in the dark.
Untouched.
For now.