The blizzard closes in. Talia stands at the window, loose strands of hair catching the amber firelight, arms folded tight against the ache in her chest. Riev sits on the bearskin rug, knees pulled up, a threadbare sweater clinging to sharp shoulders, fingers unconsciously tracing the creases in the manuscript he’ll never show anyone. His eyes flicker to Talia, searching, almost hungry. She glances back—just once, wary and open in a way that undoes him.

Elcor hovers near the kitchen, mug in hand, posture slouched and restless, unable to read the room or himself. His gaze lingers on Talia, his jaw flexing, knuckles white against ceramic. He tries to smile but his lips barely twitch. Jealousy pools in his gut, heavy as the storm outside. When he catches a glimpse of Riev's hand brushing Talia’s lower back, he turns away, shoulders squared against heartbreak.

Talia slips onto the rug beside Riev, knees touching his, her voice a breathy hush. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she confesses, gaze darting from his lips to his eyes, then away, cheeks flushed pink from more than the fire. Riev’s usual retort dies on his tongue. He swallows, watching her, and for a moment the shield of irony falls; his vulnerability is raw and trembling. He cups her cheek, thumb trembling as it traces the curve of her jaw.

“Stop running,” he whispers. His voice cracks—broken and pleading. Her breath hitches. She leans in, toes curling in the shag of the rug. Their lips meet: slow at first, a fierce, questioning press. Then urgent—her hands grasp his sweater, pulling him closer, his fingers weaving into her wild hair. She laughs against his mouth, the sound shivering with nerves and relief, and when she draws him down, the world narrows to the heat beneath her skin.

Their bodies twist together, shy and greedy, sweaters yanked up, pants fumbled with breathless giggles and bitten lips. Riev’s mouth traces the arch of her neck, each kiss reverent, as if he’s writing apologies across her skin. “You’re real,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. She holds him—legs wrapped around his waist, head tipped back, hair spilling like ink over the fur. His hands are clumsy, worshipful, trembling against the small of her back. Their rhythm builds, slow then desperate, every moan and gasp a promise neither knows how to keep.

Later, shivering and tangled, Talia buries her face in Riev’s chest. He tries to hide the tears that burn at the edge of his vision, but she feels them, presses her lips to his temple—a silent vow of forgiveness, maybe love. Outside, wind rattles the glass, but inside, something gentler thaws.

In the kitchen, Elcor paces, fists jammed in his pockets. He stares daggers at the closed living room door, every muffled laugh and moan a barb. He wants to burst in, to demand answers or apologies, but pride holds him back. Instead, he finds a bottle of whiskey, pours two fingers, and drains it in one burning gulp.

Downstairs, Zeira and Fyren find themselves locked in the cramped boathouse, snow blocking the exit. Fyren’s breath ghosts in the cold, eyes dark pools beneath his tousled hair and shadowed brow. Zeira stands uncertain, lips bitten raw, arms hugging her paint-splattered coat. She shivers, more from nerves than cold, and finally blurts, “I can’t keep pretending I don’t care.”

Fyren’s hands tremble as he reaches for her. “I’ll ruin you,” he chokes, terror and longing spliced in every syllable. She presses her forehead to his, fingers sliding over the scars on his wrists, meeting his shame with a fierce, gentle kiss. He sags into her, desperate, and for the first time in years allows someone all the way in.

Their kiss deepens, urgent, hungry, hands fumbling at buttons and zippers, layers shed in frantic haste. Fyren’s fingers graze Zeira’s skin, awed by her warmth, and she arches into him, gasping, nails leaving crescent moons on his back. When he finally enters her, the world constricts to the heat between them—her moans echo against wood, his breath ragged with need and fear and hope. In the gray morning light, Zeira clings to his bare back, both of them spent, fragile, alive.

As dawn breaks, Riev and Talia lie entwined, her laughter muffled against his shoulder. Elcor stands in the hallway, watching the door, jealousy and loneliness gnawing his insides hollow. Down at the boathouse, Zeira wakes alone, Fyren nowhere in sight, her heart thundering with fear and longing.

Muffled shouts suddenly rise from outside—the front door hangs open, ice melting on the threshold, snow blown in. Elcor’s mug shatters at his feet. Someone is missing.

To be continued...