Eleven years make quite the difference. Wilde changed out the rest of his wet things, and pulled on a fresh, clean pair of long braies and a plain tunic. But he also hadn't missed Emery's lingering look, and so the tunic was left mostly unlaced while Wilde dried off the damp, chilly goat nestled close to Gerta.

Wilde sidled up to Emery, "accidentally" bumping shoulders as he picked a blanket off the pile with an uttered thanks.

He watched him out the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction, just to make sure it wasn't just his imagination or some sort of weird wishful thinking.

"Grab one for yourself," Wilde urged, before disappearing into the larder for some supplies. Nothing like warmed goatsmilk mixed with honey, ginger and cloves on a night like this.