Shivering in the blustery cold early evening, Freya huddled in on herself as she waited for Merlin to arrive. If it was Merlin. The sword rested beside her in the grass where every passing car struck light from it. She traced the hilt with an inquisitive finger, remembering the odd way her hands refused to unclench it when she'd arrived.
Someone spoke beside her, startling her from her thoughts and she snapped her head to the side only to see that same someone fall to the ground in a flurry of fabric, but beneath it all Merlin lay. She smiled into her dirty palm, trying to hide the reaction because Merlin was clearly flustered and she didn't want him to get angry with her.
The towel rested warm and dry around her shoulders but simple body heat had her leaning into Merlin even as he fell into her.