Elcor sits hunched by the window, shoulders slumped beneath a chunky navy sweater, camera resting idly in his lap. His hair is unwashed, an untamed golden-brown mess, and the lines at the corners of his mouth are deeper than usual. He watches Talia laugh with Zeira at the kitchen counter, her delicate fingers tapping the rim of a chipped mug, cheeks flushed in the firelight. Elcor can’t tell if her smile is for him, or if it’s just habit. Every time she glances his way, his heart slams into his ribs, hopeful and uncertain.

After Zeira drifts out with an armful of firewood, Elcor crosses the room, his boots scuffing against battered floorboards. Talia’s in leggings and one of Riev’s old shirts, sleeves bunched at her wrists. She looks up as he approaches, wary but soft-eyed. “Are you okay?” she asks, voice hushed, barely hiding the guilt beneath.

He shrugs, gaze darting from her lips to the worn countertop. “Define okay.” His mouth twists, a shadow of a grin. “I just… It’s stupid. I wanted to matter.” There’s a catch in his voice, something raw and lonely. He can’t look at her, not fully.

Talia fidgets with the shirt hem, knotting it over her hip. “You do,” she whispers, but the words deflate between them. She can’t meet his eyes. Guilt flickers across her face, and she grips the mug tighter, knuckles pale. “I never meant for any of this—”

Elcor steps closer, hand hovering near her waist, searching for connection, but she slips away, disappearing down the hall. His outstretched arm falls, heavy at his side. He’s never felt so unwanted, wearing his heartbreak like a bruise.

Zeira finds him on the back porch later, shivering in the cold despite her thick green parka. Her dark curls peek from beneath a knitted hat, eyes wide and luminous above chapped lips. She hesitates, then sits beside him, offering the muffled comfort of her presence. Silence drapes itself over them, broken only by the soft sound of her gloved hand brushing snow off his sleeve.

“I’m tired of making everyone feel better but myself,” she says, surprising them both. Her vulnerability is startling—but so is the soft, electric tension between their knees. Elcor laughs, low and shaky, running a hand through his tangled hair.

“Me too,” he says, barely more than a breath. The words hang between them, invitation and apology. Zeira’s touch is hesitant when she threads her fingers with his, but neither lets go. As dusk gathers, she leans her head to his shoulder, and Elcor, for the first time in days, lets himself close his eyes.

Inside, Riev broods at the dining table, hunched over a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His black turtleneck clings to narrow shoulders, jaw shadowed with stubble. He taps a pen against his notebook so violently it leaves ink spatters across the page. Talia sits opposite, knees hugging her chest, anxiety radiating from her restless gaze. “If you’re going to say something,” she says, voice brittle, “just say it.”

His eyes are cold, but under the sarcasm, there’s hunger and hurt. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Riev spits, words sharp as frost. “You bounce from one person to another, collecting hearts like souvenirs until you get bored.”

“That’s not fair,” she snaps, cheeks blotched red. “You’re the one who—” Her voice cracks. Shame flares in her gaze.

He leans forward, eyes glinting, every muscle tight. “I let you in. I fucking trusted you.” The room feels too small, fire shadows flickering across his clenched fists. “You want authenticity?” Riev’s laugh is bitter. “Fine. My last novel? All true. The affair, the heartbreak—the mess. And you? You’re just another muse for someone else’s tragedy.”

Talia’s eyes brim. She stands abruptly, arms wrapped around herself. “You don’t mean that.” The words are desperate. “You’re just scared.” Her voice drops, pleading.

He says nothing, jaw grinding. Silence chokes the air as she flees, boots thudding a frantic rhythm on the stairs.

Fyren sits alone in the caretaker’s room, slouched in a threadbare flannel shirt. Moonlight pools under his eyes, accentuating exhaustion and haunted grief. He wakes sweating, shivering from a nightmare, gasping for breath. A phantom memory claws at him—freezing water, outstretched hands slipping away. He splashes water on his face, watches himself in the cracked mirror, and for a moment, he looks like a frightened boy, not the stoic caretaker everyone assumes.

When Zeira knocks hesitantly, concern in her dark eyes, he can barely meet her gaze. She reaches for him, her touch gentle and apologetic. “Let me help—just let me try,” she whispers, voice trembling.

He flinches, yanking away. “Don’t,” his voice is hoarse—more plea than command. “I ruined everything before. I can’t—” He squeezes his eyes shut, fists balled tight. “I can’t lose anyone again.”

Zeira doesn’t cry, but the pain in her posture is stark—shoulders hunched, mouth twisted in silent rejection. She turns away, wrapping herself in her own arms as she slips into the darkened hall.

That night, the group gathers for dinner, exhaustion etched on every face. Talia picks at her food, eyes rimmed with red. Riev downs whiskey, brittle and volatile. Elcor and Zeira sit close but touch less, the air between them tender and guilty. Fyren arrives last, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Dinner devolves into silence until Riev slams his glass onto the table, shards of vulnerability exposed. “You all want honesty?” he sneers, his words slicing the hush. “Fine. Talia’s last relationship? It ended because she couldn’t decide who she wanted. She’s terrified of being alone, even for a second. That’s why she’s with me now. Not because she loves me, but because I’m here.”

Talia recoils as if slapped, tears slipping down her cheeks. Zeira’s hand covers her mouth, shocked. Elcor’s face hardens, jaw clenching. Fyren stands abruptly, chair scraping. “Enough,” he says, voice trembling with rage and old pain. “You have no right—none of you—to tear each other apart just because you’re scared.”

Talia bolts from the table, shoving past Riev, out into the storm—no coat, no gloves. Snow swallows her, breath clouding in panicked gasps, boots slipping as she flees toward the woods. Fyren hesitates, then follows, heart pounding with dread—memories of frozen water and desperate hands burning in his chest. As the wind howls, the others stare after them, shock and terror rooting them to their seats.

Outside, Talia vanishes into the snow-blind night. Fyren’s shout is lost in the storm.

To be continued...