It was a lovely journey, and a large part of that was the company. Cassandra would argue that Geralt was a fine date, were that particular sort of phrasing something that would cross her mind. It’s not, exactly, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is, and she does. It’s easy to talk to him, being near him. Comfortable and easy and lovely.

(She finds herself wanting to do this again. To spend more time with him.)

It’s difficult not to notice how he watches her; and she cannot say that she’s not doing the same. He’s terribly handsome, and striking, and firelight only accents his features. (And although he doesn’t speak often if more often in her presence, it seems sometimes, she does very much like the sound of his voice.)

It’s easy to share a little of herself, a tale here or there about Whitestone despite her feelings towards it now - it had been her home, once, and once she had loved it there; the time Ludwig had teased her over liking a boy and so she’d shoved him in the lake before stomping off with all the outraged poise an eleven year old could muster. She tells him a little of Rome, as well. Daud. The war against the Titans. (She doesn’t, however, mention the cult or its orgy.)

Her attention is drawn by a glow of light in the shadows of the trees. One, then another, and then more. She catches Geralt’s gaze, and answers his smile with one of her own, blue-grey eyes bright. It’s beautiful.