The cabin buzzed softly with life.

Someone was chopping kindling outside. Someone else laughed, sharp and echoing, from the far side of the room where cards were being dealt. The wind howled against the old wood, and somewhere near the back door, a pot simmered over the fire with whatever they’d managed to scrape together for dinner.

But on the far side of the cabin, in the corner where the draft didn’t quite reach, Natalie lay curled on a worn mattress with her girlfriend, wrapped beneath a blanket that still smelled faintly of smoke and pine.

Natalie’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, fingers brushing fabric in a slow, absent rhythm. Her head rested against your shoulder, one leg tangled with the other’s. Her breathing had slowed, softer than usual. Less guarded.

Her eyes stayed open, watching the cracked ceiling overhead like it might split apart. But her body was still, warm and heavy with a kind of peace she rarely let herself feel.

Natalie: “I can hear them all.” she murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. “Laughing like it’s not all falling apart.”

She wasn’t angry about it. Just tired. Tired in a way that reached her bones.