Talia stands in the center of the cabin’s kitchen, arms wrapped tightly around herself, jaw clenched against tears. Her sweatshirt is stretched out, sleeves pulled over her fists, hair wild from restless sleep and the cold. Riev blocks the doorway, dark eyes narrow and jaw set, as if guarding her from escape—or from himself. His voice is terse, every word sharp-edged. “You shouldn’t have told him goodbye first.” A brittle laugh catches in his throat, but his posture is pleading, shoulders pitched forward. “You always choose the exit before the apology.”

Her face flushes, lips trembling as she stares him down. “You gave us no choice,” she chokes out, blinking hard. There’s a pause—one breathless, silent moment—where everything hovers between fury and longing. He steps closer, his fingers twitching at his side as if fighting the urge to reach for her, and she can smell the musk of sweat, the lingering hint of whiskey from last night’s chaos.

One tear escapes, snaking down her cheek. Riev falters, pain flashing behind his bravado. He lets the shell slip. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just—” The confession dies in the space between them. She closes the gap, her hands trembling as she clutches his shirt, twisting it into desperate knots. “Then don’t,” she whispers, mouth so close he feels her words brush against his lips.

He kisses her, savage and hungry, every ounce of regret and apology poured into the bruising press of his mouth. She meets him with equal urgency, nails digging into his back, as if anchoring herself in the storm of him. Tears streak her cheeks, but her mouth is fire, body pressed against him, hips rocking forward as if she could remake the world with touch alone.

They stumble toward the old sofa, tangled in each other, pulling shirts overhead, baring skin mottled from cold and heartbreak. Her bra snaps off, cotton and lace tossed aside, his hands tracing her ribs, memorizing the soft tremble of her breath. She arches into him, gasping out his name, her voice scraped raw. He worships her scars with his lips, each kiss a silent plea for forgiveness. She undresses him with frantic fingers, her touch reverent and aching, as if both apology and claim.

He enters her slowly, tender and aching, their bodies colliding in desperate rhythm. She weeps into his neck, his own eyes squeezed shut, breathing her in like salvation. Every thrust is an unspoken promise, every stifled cry a breaking and a mending at once. When they finish, tangled and trembling, she strokes his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “I want to forgive you,” she whispers, voice unsure, but her body curling around his as if the choice is already made.

But dawn is not gentle. The front door creaks—Zeira, coat thrown hastily over flannel pajamas, slips outside with a battered duffel. Her hair is shoved beneath a hat, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched in wounded determination. Fyren is a silhouette at the stairwell, stubble sharp and eyes haunted, arms rigid at his sides as realization lands. He bolts after her, boots thudding, calling her name through the brittle morning air. The pain in his voice cracks something open inside him. He catches her by the shoulder at the edge of the pines, breathless, his own hands shaking. “Please—don’t leave. Not now. I can’t—” The words fracture. She turns, eyes shining with accusation and longing. “I won’t be your regret,” she snaps, chest heaving. He grabs her face, fingers gentle but desperate. “You’re not. You’re the only thing I want to do right.” She breaks, sinking into his arms, sobs muffled against his shoulder as snow swirls and melts on their skin.

Inside, Elcor stands at the window with a half-packed bag, face pale and lips set in a brittle line. Talia, hair tangled and shirt askew, finds him there before he can leave. She grabs his hand, holding on, her tears new but her voice steady. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t love you, but I’ll never forget you.” He smiles—bittersweet, tired—and draws her into a tight embrace, their bodies pressed together in a goodbye that is all forgiveness, no regret.

As the sun rises, Fyren and Zeira emerge from the trees together, hand in hand, eyes searching one another for courage. Riev watches from the porch, shirt half-buttoned, Talia at his side. The five of them are scattered, changed—threads frayed but not broken.

And then, a scream cuts through the thawing silence—a single, primal cry from the edge of the lake—Zeira’s voice, terrified, echoing across the ice.

To be continued...