Once they were inside his room, Farkas made his way behind the bar and motioned in front of him. "Take a seat."

But Bretagne was rooted in place, clutching the book to her chest and staring into the floor with a frown. Did I do something wrong? she asked herself. Vilkas seemed uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward with a hug, but I was just so grateful for his help… Next time I'll just keep my hands to myself.

"Bret?"

At the sound of her name, she startled. "Oh... sorry. I was, um, lost in my thoughts." She made her way over to him, climbing up on a tall, padded barstool as elegantly as she could, given her short stature.

"Don't mind my brother," he said with a sympathetic smile. He cleaned the inside of a tankard with a cloth while he spoke. "He's not much of a hugger."

"He's very...stoic," she said thoughtfully. "A man's man."

"Yeah, and a horse's arse." Farkas shot her a crooked grin and she laughed. "He means well. Just takes a while for him to trust people."

She smiled and shook her head. "You two couldn't be more different."

"We get that a lot." He set down two matching mugs on the bar top with a dull thud. "Alright, fair maiden, pick your poison."

Bretagne flushed and her eyes widened, both in shyness and just a hint of alarm. "P-poison?"

Farkas grimaced. "Sorry, poor choice of words." Internally, he was kicking himself for scaring the poor girl. Here they were, alone together in his room, and he had to go and say that. Why did he always have to make things awkward? "Ahem. Uh, what can I get you?"

"I don't know, what do you have?"

He counted the options on his fingers as he rattled them off. "Mead, wine, ale, brandy, whiskey, imported Matze, Sujamma..."

"Wow, that's quite a selection." Bretagne pointed to a display case on the wall behind him. Behind the glass stood a few expensive looking bottles, locked up tight. "What are those ones? They look fancy."

Farkas glanced over his shoulder at where she was pointing. "Oh, those are my rares. Top shelf." He gestured to each, naming them. "Emberbrand, Black-Briar Reserve, aged Flin, and a 415 vintage Surilie Brothers." He turned back to her, a proud smile on his face and a glint in his eye. "My prized possession. What I wouldn't give to get my hands on a bottle of 399..."

The sound of Bretagne giggling startled Farkas out of his reverie. "What?"

"You seem really proud of your collection, that's all," she said.

He shrugged. "I guess. Vil said once that I talk too much about it."

"Nonsense!" Bret said. "It's perfectly all right to share your passions with the world. Besides, you talk about spirits like Vilkas talks about books."

Farkas grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, I guess. Just stop me if I get carried away."

"Never! I like listening to you talk about the things you like." Bretagne looked him in his ice-blue eyes and smiled, and he gave one in return. They gazed at one another for what seemed like an eternity…until they both snapped out of it and looked away. Farkas busied himself under the bar and Bretagne stared at the stool next to her as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, trying to get her heart to calm down.

"I don't take you for a heavy drinker," he supplied, changing the subject.

"No," Bretagne admitted, "just the occasional glass of wine."

He pursed his lips. "I think I've got something you'll like," Farkas said. He produced a large dark bottle with a small, yellowed label. "Honey cider, from Voljar's in Eastmarch." He popped the cork and poured a small bit into Bretagne's mug, then slid it over to her. "Try it."

She hesitantly brought the mug to her lips, gingerly taking a tiny sip before setting it down. The flavor was pleasant, not bitter nor overly sweet, with just a hint of spice. She pondered the taste, taking several more sips, then nodded, sliding the mug toward him in a silent plea for more.

He obliged happily, filling her tankard almost to the brim before corking the bottle and returning it underneath the bar. Then, he began prepping his own drink.

"This is good," Bretagne said, sipping more. Really good, actually, but she didn't want to start gulping down the stuff for fear she would look like a lush. That title belonged to Torvar!

"Secret is appleblossom honey."

Bretagne held the mug with both hands and gazed at the light amber liquid inside. "How do you get all these, anyway?"

Farkas took a long drag on a bottle of some sort of pale ale. "A friend of a friend in East Empire shipping. And I've learned a lot on my travels. Met this one guy in Riften, bartender at the Bee and Barb. Kinda strange, but he's a wizard at mixing liquors."

Bretagne's eyes widened and she started to push away her mug. "Like an actual wizard?"

Farkas chuckled and pushed her mug back. "No, not really. Your drink is magic-free. ...Well, this one, anyway."

"Are you sure you weren't a bartender in a past life?" she asked.

Farkas ducked his head, and in the low light, it almost seemed like his cheeks reddened. "Nah. Just something I enjoy." He took another swig of ale. "I wanted to try brewing, even thought of building my own set up. But Kodlak said there wasn't room for a tank and there's no way in Oblivion Tilma would let me use the kitchen."

She hadn't noticed that he'd filled her drink yet again until she took another sip. It just went down so smoothly! I should probably slow down, she told herself. "You'd build it? By yourself?"

He nodded. "Aye. Wouldn't be too difficult to fashion a lean-to, maybe on the back porch. But we'd have to move the practice dummies and it's lost room for training," he said, shrugging.

Bretagne smiled. "I think it's a great idea. You seem pretty handy, too. I remember Vilkas saying something earlier about helping you build–" She cut off, remembering where the rest of that conversation had gone. Now it was her turn to blush, looking down at her drink in embarrassment. She downed the rest of it, the pleasant heat trailing a line down her throat into her belly before spreading throughout her body. She pushed the mug away from her.

"A-aye," he choked out and awkwardly cleared his throat. He began refilling his own mug with something stronger as he spoke. "I'm no good with planning things, but Vil can't mount a bracket to save his life. So, he does all the measuring, and I do all the building." He gestured vaguely to the ceiling. "Who else's gonna keep this place in shape?"

Bretagne opened her mouth wordlessly, impressed. "Hold on, you mean you do all the repairs to Jorrvaskr?"

"Yep. Roof, floors... anything that needs work, I work on it. When I can. Sometimes I have help." He tipped his head back, downing the corner-dreg of his drink before setting aside the empty mug and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bretagne's gaze flicked from his gorgeous eyes to his full lips and back. Gods, I could stare at him all day, she mused. I wonder how his lips would feel… She shook her head. No, what are you saying? Bad Bret! You can't think those thoughts, you're getting married!

Suddenly she was feeling very warm, so she shrugged off her robe, leaving her only in her chemise.

Farkas fought very hard not to look anywhere but her face. "Sometimes I do little things too, in between jobs. Built most of the stuff in this room."

"Like that table?"

Farkas nodded, smiling.

"And this bar? And the stools?"

"Aye and aye." He pointed to the closed door. "Vil's new bookcases, too."

"That was your handiwork? And from scratch?! Farkas, those are beautiful!"

He gave a sheepish lopsided grin, waving her away before turning around. He pretended to be busy cleaning up so she wouldn't see, but he couldn't help but grin proudly. "Ah, it was nothin'."

Bretagne leaned across the bar, stretching her arms out, cheeks reddened from drink and maybe something else. "Well, I think–hic–I think it's somethin'. Maybe I could have you make something for me!"

He turned around, raising his eyebrows in mild surprise before his expression softened. "Yeah? I'd like that."

"Maybe a little box to put my coins and buttons and jewelry in."

"Oh yeah?"

"I kinda started collecting them a while back." She gestured drunkenly to the wall behind Farkas. "Not nearly as impressive as yours, of course."

He chuckled. "Thanks. I'll see what I can do."

They stayed there for a moment in the silence, Bretagne's head feeling buzzy after the cider had finally hit bottom. Farkas nodded to the end of the bar, where the blue book lay. "You should probably get to reading that. My brother doesn't like it when people keep his books too long."

She followed his gaze and sat up straighter, letting out a small gasp. "Oh shoot... I forgot," she muttered, sliding none-too-gracefully off of the high stool. Once her feet hit the floor, she paused to steady herself, shaking her head to clear away the fuzz before carefully making her way over to the edge. "Whee…" she said as she blinked rapidly. I must really be a lightweight, she thought. Perhaps I did drink a bit too much… She gathered the book and clutched it to her chest with both arms, as if it would keep her upright.

Farkas came around the bar to meet her. "...Thanks." He handed her the discarded robe.

Bretagne looked up at him with glossy eyes, cheeks flush. "For hwat?" she asked, emphasizing on the exhale.

"For the drink. With me." When Farkas talked about his passion projects, he was practically a professional orator. But now, he felt nervous and tongue-tied. He must have imbibed too much. Why else would he be feeling so jumbled up around her now?

"You ashked me, silly!" She playfully swatted at his chest, giggling.

"Alright, think it's time for bed." He gently guided her by the shoulder, leading her out of his room. Bretagne leaned heavily into his side as they started walking, but she swayed on her feet. Farkas steadied her before she fell, but as soon as she took another step, she wobbled again. So, Farkas bent down and scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing and started making his way down the hall.

"I'M IN THE–"

Farkas shushed her. Realizing her mistake, she lowered her volume, which was still a loud whisper. "I'm in the whelp's quarters."

"I know." As they approached the doors–still open, thankfully–Bretagne slung her arms around his neck and inhaled his comforting sweet woodsy scent, sighing contentedly. She nuzzled into him further, her long brunette hair tickling his cheek.

Farkas shuffled through the dark room to her bed. Luckily, it was the first one on the right near the door, so maybe he wouldn't stumble over something and wake everyone up.

He set her down gently onto the bed, clothes, slippers, and all. She rolled over on her side and Farkas knelt on the floor beside her. In the darkness, she smiled a drunk smile, eyelids becoming heavier as he gently took the book from her hands and set it underneath her bed. Then he tugged on the part of the quilt she wasn't laying on, wrapping it over her as much as he could. But she was uncooperative and wouldn't budge, so he laid her robe over her like a blanket instead. He turned her carefully on her side, in case she got sick in the night. She squirmed, giggling.

"Shhh."

"Mmkay," she mumbled, flopping back on the pillow. At that, she was out like a light. Farkas brushed a strand of loose hair out of her eyes, then stood up. He shook his head but couldn't keep the stupid drunk grin off his face. What am I gonna do with you? he thought. "Dream sweet," he whispered, then bent down and kissed her forehead before exiting the room as quietly as he could.