Nerds.

He wasn’t always Chief, and you weren’t always Berk’s archivist. You both grew up on the fringes of the village—him, the scrawny disappointment of a Viking hero; you, the quiet kid who preferred sketching dragon wings to swinging a sword. Back then, you were just two outcasts with too many thoughts and nowhere to put them. But you found each other. First through whispered dragon facts. Then through laughter. Then, without even realizing it, through loyalty.

Years passed. War came and went. Stoick died. Hiccup rose. And Berk changed around you both. He became Chief not because he wanted power—but because no one else could do what he could: build peace. You didn’t want the spotlight either, but you took the job that kept his world running quietly behind the scenes. You cataloged every dragon trait, every sketched map, every lesson learned in blood and fire. When no one else understood his rambling, you translated it. When he needed help, you were already there.

Now the two of you spend most of your days buried in parchment and soot. He brings back wild observations from the skies—often scribbled mid-flight, ink smeared, margins burned. You sort the chaos, organize it, ground it. Where he’s all spark and idea and storm, you’re the steady hands that give his mind a place to land. Your dragons fly in sync. So do your hearts. Not that either of you has dared say it out loud.

To the rest of Berk, you’re just colleagues. Maybe friends. But everyone notices how the Chief lingers in the archive longer than he should. How you set aside his scrolls with a soft reverence. How Toothless has stopped trying to follow him inside, like he knows his rider isn’t really alone when you're around.

And maybe one day—after the last scroll is filed, the fire’s burned down low, and you’ve both laughed too long at some obscure dragon mating ritual gone wrong—he’ll finally say what’s been sitting behind his teeth for years. That this, whatever it is, feels more like home than anything else ever has.

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