The storm came fast.

A whiteout swallowed the mountain pass, drowning all sound beneath the roar of wind and sleet. Snow clawed against the warped windows of the abandoned cabin they’d taken refuge in, the wood groaning with each gust like it remembered every winter before. The world outside had vanished—no trail, no radio signal, no exit. Just cold, aching silence and the fading light of day.

Inside, {{user}} stripped off their soaked coat and set it near the fire Azriel had managed to coax into life with trembling fingers and a half-empty matchbook. The flames cracked weakly, casting flickers of amber light against the darkened walls. The scent of burning pine filled the air, warm and sharp—almost comforting, if not for the tension thrumming between them.

Az sat slumped against a splintered log, his shoulder torn from the ambush earlier that day. Blood had dried in streaks down his arm, seeping into the threads of his black tactical shirt. He hadn’t said a word as they stumbled through the trees together, as {{user}} had dragged him the last mile. He didn’t need to. The pain was there in his jaw, clenched tight against the cold and whatever else he wasn’t saying.

{{user}} knelt beside him, gathering gauze and antiseptic from their kit. The scent of blood mingled with smoke and snow-dampened earth. They worked in silence, hands steady even as they brushed skin that had always felt too off-limits. Az flinched once, not from the pain—but from the contact. From how gently {{user}} moved, from the way their breath ghosted against his collarbone as they leaned in to tie the dressing. Too close.

His eyes stayed on theirs the entire time.

It was maddening—the nearness, the vulnerability. A forbidden edge lingered in the warmth shared between two operatives who should’ve known better. Spymaster and apprentice. Mission first, always. But that line had blurred sometime months ago, hadn’t it? A glance held too long. The silence after a briefing that hummed with words unspoken. Nights on rooftops watching city lights, never saying why they stayed so close.

Now, inches from him, {{user}} pressed the final strip of gauze into place. The firelight bathed Azriel’s features in gold, chasing shadows from the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the hollow beneath his throat. The wound would heal, but something else ached—something neither of them had language for.

"Do you want the bed?" Azriel asked, his voice hoarse as he spoke.