Jaskier takes his refusal surprisingly gracefully; Geralt had thought that he might press or whine, as he sometimes does when the witcher denies him other little things. He only reaches forward and clasps one of Geralt's hands, squeezing it warmly and telling him things about respect and trust. And, well, of course Geralt would only ever do the things that he had been given permission for-- he would never take exploit him in such a way, use his inhuman strength or any other advantage to take something from him that isn't freely given. He'd sooner turn his own sword on himself.

It's hard to feel his warmth through all of their layers of clothing, but Jaskier presses against him and kisses him at the corner of his mouth, sweet and soft. Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment, and breathes when he's leaned in close, and--

floral oil, lute wax, affection, a barely-there spicy hint of lust, meadowsweet that he'd picked to feed to Pegasus and Roach as a treat, water where the fringe of his hair got wet--

commits this moment to memory.

"Hm." A neutral hum again, though Jaskier has, in twenty years, gained the ability to read past even his most carefully ambivalent tones. "There has been time."

The closest to an admission that he'll get.

"If you're finished, we should keep moving. There will only be a few more hours of daylight."