Blake's feather-light reply receives a faint noise of acknowledgment. The suggestion that he hang out in his own home brings a more significant glance out of the corner of his eye. Mm-hm. He doesn't remark upon Blake barging into his damn house and inviting him to stay.

"Go on, then."

The meal Blake dragged down to the mines wasn't bad. Besides, Geralt is hardly discerning about what he eats.

He disappears briefly into his room without a word before emerging dressed, his damp hair tied back again. The pantry contains a scattering of vegetables. A loaf of bread is on the counter—as fresh as the day it was purchased—and the shank of boar wrapped in parchment shows no sign of having sat in the heat for hours. Jaskier's magic.

Leaning his shoulder against the threshold wall, he watches Blake move about. "Were you responsible for it?" Cooking, that is. For the boys he lived with. "Growing up?"

He can almost envision it: a younger Blake, just tall enough to comfortably reach the countertops. Nero was raised much the same, surrounded by discarded children and little else. Geralt supposes it isn't exactly unexpected that he found himself drawn to the two of them.