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Summary
He never wanted to leave Jaskier like this, especially not this year, watching his fingers curl under the furs and knees tucked up, frozen eyelashes beginning to melt and skin turning red from the sudden temperature change. He hovered, knowing his brother would take care of Roach if he asked, but—
Jaskier turned to Geralt, brow raised and smiling.
"My sweet Witcher, while I appreciate your fretting, I can assure you that I will be sitting by this warmed fire for the foreseeable future. I am but a lump,"
or
After a rough year, Geralt introspects and frets.