Brandon's POV
Inside, the cabin felt like stepping into another world — not warm, not safe, but removed just enough from the storm to let my heartbeat slow. Shadows pooled in the corners. The air carried the faint scent of pine and disuse, a stillness like the place had been waiting for someone… or something.
I guided her onto the bed. Amelia cradled her injured arm tight to her chest, breath sharp, skin far too pale. Her clothes were soaked through, dripping melted snow onto the quilt. Hypothermia wasn't a threat — it was a countdown.
"You need to get out of those," I said, pulling off her boots and coat before the cold could sink any deeper.
She nodded toward a small set of drawers. I found thick socks, soft sweats, a worn sweater — simple, practical comfort. I set them beside her and turned away to give her privacy.
A few minutes passed before she let out a frustrated exhale. "I can't… get the sweater on."
When I stepped back toward her, she held herself rigid, refusing the vulnerability but unable to hide how badly her hand trembled. Carefully, I helped ease the sweater over her shoulders, mindful of every flinch of pain.
"What's your name?" I asked, trying to tether the moment to something normal. Something human.
"Amelia." Her gaze met mine, sharp despite everything. "And you?"
"Brandon."
I pulled socks onto her numb feet. She eyed my soaked clothes.
"You should change too," she muttered, tone pointed despite the exhaustion.
I grabbed spare clothes from my pack and ducked into the tiny bathroom. When I stepped out again, Amelia was braced awkwardly in front of the fireplace, fighting to start a fire with one hand. Stubborn. Determined. Possibly reckless.
"My car's at the trailhead," I said. "When this storm eases, I'll get you to a hospital."
She gave a humorless laugh, nodding at the windows where snow slammed against the glass. "That storm isn't easing. Not tonight."
"You need a doctor. If that cut —"
"It's stopped bleeding." Her voice was steady. Too steady. "The storm is the bigger danger."
She was right. But worry still pressed hard in my chest.
"Then let me help," I said.
After a beat, she relented. "Fine. Start with the fire."
The wood was already stacked, ready — as if someone had prepared for an emergency. I filed the thought away as I coaxed the flames to life. Light spilled across the room, chasing shadows up the walls.
"There's a medical kit in the kitchen," she murmured. "Top cabinet."
I found it and brought it to the table, pulling up a chair for her. Carefully, I eased her arm free from the sweater sleeve and peeled back the blood-soaked bandage. The wound was jagged — deeper than I'd realised on the mountain.
"This will sting," I warned.
She hissed when the alcohol touched her skin, but held still, jaw clamped. I cleaned and rewrapped it, trying not to think about how easily this could've been worse.
When I finished, she leaned back, forearm draped over her eyes, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. Outside, the storm battered the cabin. Inside, the fire popped, casting restless shadows across her face.
I hung our wet clothes near the hearth, scavenged the kitchen, and heated the closest thing to a meal — canned soup, a chunk of bread. When I returned, she was half-asleep already.
"Amelia." I touched her shoulder gently. "You need to eat."
She forced herself upright, reaching for the bowl. When I handed her bread instead, she gave me a faint, tired smirk.
"Practical," she murmured, amusement flickering beneath the pain.
I fed her small spoonfuls until the bowl was empty, then gave her water and painkillers. Minutes later, she drifted back under.
"Thank you," she whispered, as if the words were heavier than they should be.
"Sleep," I said.
She did.
I sat in the armchair, letting the fire warm my legs while the storm rattled the cabin like it wanted in. Amelia murmured once in her sleep — soft, disoriented. Relief hit me hard enough to sting.
"How's the pain?" I asked when she blinked awake.
"Bad," she breathed. Then, almost amused, "But better."
She was lying, or minimising, or both. Either way, she was tougher than she looked.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I wish I could do more."
Her eyes met mine — steady, unreadable. "Don't be. You've already done more than most would."
Hours later, she was asleep again. The fire was burning low. And still, some instinct wouldn't let me close my eyes.
It wasn't just the storm that felt dangerous anymore. It was the sense that whatever had brought Amelia into these mountains… wasn't finished.