Zeira’s hands are raw from the wind, her cheeks pink and eyes sharp with an unspoken ache as she climbs the porch steps, arms full of crated supplies. Her hair escapes her wool cap in a wild, copper tangle, the only color against the gray hush of morning. Fyren meets her at the door, silent as always, his frame tall and wary, posture stiff like he’s preparing for a blow he can’t evade. Their eyes meet for one lingering moment—a silent, electric recognition—and she smiles, soft and hopeful, before dropping her gaze. Fyren’s scarred knuckles brush hers as he takes the crate; he flinches, but doesn’t let go.

Inside, Talia sits cross-legged on the floor, knees peeking from torn leggings, notebook balanced between paint-flecked palms. Her lips are bitten pink, her hair in a half-hearted braid that’s slipped loose, each stray curl catching the glow of the fire. Riev perches nearby, hunched in an oversized sweater, jaw tense, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the wooden planks. He watches her in quick glances, like she’s a secret he’s trying not to crave.

“You ever get sick of the cold?” Talia asks, voice soft but edged with something reckless. She shivers, not just from the draft, and Riev smirks.

“Better than heat,” he mutters. “People don’t sweat all over you, for one.”

She laughs, the sound small and bright—and suddenly leans in, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. His breath catches, vulnerability flickering in his stormy gaze. “You’re not as cold as you pretend,” Talia whispers. Riev sags slightly, the sharpness in his shoulders softening.

“I’m colder,” he says, deadpan, but his throat bobs, betraying nerves. For a moment, neither moves. Then, impulsively, Talia scoots closer, warmth radiating off her small frame.

She lifts her sleeve, revealing a fresh scar along her wrist, half-hidden and white. “You think it gets easier, leaving people behind?” Her voice is fragile, hope and shame coiled tight. Riev’s eyes darken; he doesn’t look away. Instead, he covers her hand with his, thumb stroking her pulse, slow and grounding.

“No,” he says. “But you survive it.” His words melt something inside her. Talia’s hand slides to his jaw, her fingertips trembling. She kisses him—soft at first, then hungry, opening her mouth to his, their bodies pressed close on the coarse rug. Riev lifts her gently, hands under her sweater, tracing ribs, lost in the shape of her, greedy and uncertain. Candlelight flickers shadows over bare skin as heat blurs the edges of restraint.

She gasps his name, arching against him, her nails scraping down his neck. Riev’s mouth tastes of whiskey and longing, his stubble rough against her cheek. She pulls at his shirt, baring his chest, and he shoves her jacket off, desperate to feel her skin against his own. Her thighs bracket his hips, determined and breathless as he kisses down her neck.

A sudden creak—the door swings open. Elcor stands in the threshold, wind-whipped and open-mouthed, camera slung across his chest, eyes wide with disbelief and something wounded. The silence shatters. Talia sits up, cheeks burning, sweater slipping from her shoulder. Riev snaps upright, rage and guilt flashing across his face.

Elcor’s jaw clenches tight. He looks at Talia—hurt, betrayed—and then at Riev, anger simmering. “Nice,” he hisses. “Was this the plan all along?” His voice cracks, brittle and raw. Talia’s lips part, searching for an answer she doesn’t have.

Across the ice, Zeira and Fyren stand on the dock, watching the cabin. Fyren’s hands curl into fists at his sides, haunted by a memory only he can see. Zeira edges closer, close enough that her coat brushes his arm—a silent invitation. Fyren’s tight features soften, just barely, as Zeira leans into him, letting silence do the talking.

Back inside, Talia’s heart thunders in her chest, shame wrestling with desire. She glances at Riev, whose eyes are glassy and hard. Elcor storms out, boots stomping, the slam of the door echoing through all of them. Riev and Talia are left staring at each other, breathless, unfinished—their want exposed, but the cost now undeniable.

Outside, snow begins to fall harder, swirling around the cabin, closing them in tighter. Inside, nothing can be undone.

To be continued...