A soft, drowsy voice cut through the quiet.
"You're freezing. Come here."
I blinked awake in the armchair, neck stiff, spine aching. For a moment I didn't know where I was — just firelight, the echo of the storm, Amelia's ragged breathing. Then the room settled around me again.
"I'm fine," I murmured. "It's nothing I can't handle."
An impatient breath drifted from the bed — sharp, irritated, entirely awake despite her exhaustion.
"Don't be stubborn. Come here."
The command shouldn't have held weight, but it did. Maybe because she looked one breath away from collapsing again. Maybe because she didn't waste words, and when she spoke, she meant them.
"You're bossy when you're injured," I said quietly.
She didn't smile. Just lifted a brow — an unspoken do as I say.
I exhaled slowly, pushing myself up. The cold had seeped deep into my bones; every step toward the bed reminded me of it. She pulled back the duvet.
"Climb in," she said simply.
"Oh no. Just show me where the spare blankets are. The chair's fine."
"There are no spares," she countered. "And you're shivering hard enough to shake the walls."
"It wouldn't be appropriate," I said, lowering my voice. "I don't want you uncomfortable."
She held my gaze — tired, hurting, but clear. "If you meant harm, you've had hours of opportunities. You didn't take any. That tells me all I need to know. We're sharing warmth because it's survival, not anything else. Now get in."
The logic was solid. The tone even more so. Still, I hesitated.
"What if I kick you in my sleep?" I muttered.
"Then I'll kick you back." Her mouth curved — tired but sure. "Now get in."
I gave a reluctant huff of laughter and slid under the covers. Warmth rushed up immediately, almost dizzying after the chair's chill.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Amelia," I murmured. Sleep swallowed me fast.
I woke to the sound of her trembling. Violently.
Her skin was flushed red, sweat beading across her brow. Her lips moved in broken fragments of thought, breath coming fast and shallow. A fever — and a bad one.
My pulse spiked. I pressed my palm to her forehead.
Burning.
I bolted from the bed, grabbed a bowl, filled it with cold water, and returned to kneel beside her. The towel cooled quickly; her skin did not. I replaced it again and again, whispering reassurance even if she couldn't hear it.
Finally, her breaths eased. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused.
"Water…" she rasped.
I steadied a glass at her lips. She drank desperately before sinking back, drained.
"Brandon?" she whispered.
"I'm here," I said immediately, taking her trembling hand. "I'm right here."
Something in her eased. Not fully — but enough.
She drifted off again, and the next hours blurred into a careful, relentless rhythm: keep the fire alive, cool her fever, force enough food into her to take the pain meds, watch for any sign she was getting worse. She fought everything except sleep.
At one point, I caught myself studying her — really seeing her for the first time. The delicate fan of her lashes against her cheeks. The scatter of gold in her dark hair catching the firelight. The way her expression softened only in true exhaustion.
She looked younger like this. And achingly alone.
A faint sound pulled me back. A whimper — thin and pained. I pressed my hand to her forehead again.
Warm, but no longer burning.
Relief hit so sharply I had to sit down.
The fire, though, was nearly out.
I looked at the logs. Gone.
Looked at her. Asleep.
Looked at the axe by the door.
There was no choice.
I shrugged into my coat and gloves, grabbed the axe, and stepped outside.
The storm slammed into me like a wall — blinding, merciless. Snow reached my knees, dragging at my legs with every step. My breath tore out in ragged bursts as I pushed through to the woodpile.
I brushed snow off a log, set it on the stump, raised the axe. The wood was dense with cold, but the blade met it hard, splitting clean. The crack echoed across the trees.
I swung again. And again. The rhythm steadied me — something real, something loud enough to fight the thoughts pressing at the edges of my mind.
By the time the pile was high enough, my arms burned and sweat chilled against my skin. But I had what we needed.
I gathered the wood, staggered back toward the orange glow in the window, and pushed into the cabin's warmth.
Back to the fire.
Back to Amelia.
Back to whatever tomorrow would demand of us.