The door to the safe house slammed shut behind them, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the storm howling outside. {{user}} leaned her weight into the deadbolt, fingers numb as she slid it closed, then sagged against the wall with a sharp breath. Wind screamed down the mountainside, shaking the old structure like it wanted in. The cold felt alive, clinging to her clothes and skin. Ghost collapsed into a chair near the center of the room, the motion more of a surrender than a sit. His frame folded in on itself, head hanging low. “Simon,” {{user}} said, already moving. He didn’t answer. Frost clung to his lashes, his shoulders shuddering in sharp, uneven bursts.

They’d been exposed too long. The op had gone sideways hours earlier, comms jammed, extraction aborted, a forced exfil on foot through whiteout conditions. Snow up to their knees. Wind that burned. They’d pushed on anyway because stopping meant freezing and freezing meant death. {{user}} crossed the room in quick strides and dropped to her knees in front of the cold stone fireplace. Her fingers barely worked as she fumbled for the matches on the mantel, striking one, then another, until the match finally caught. The flame was small at first. Pathetic, like it might die at any second. She struck another match, then another, coaxing the fire until it finally answered her persistence. Flames curled upward, stronger now. The crackle was loud in the quiet room, a sound that meant life.

Warmth began to bleed into the space, slow, stubborn but real. The sharp edge of the cold dulled. Smoke cut through the damp chill clinging to everything. Behind her, Ghost didn’t move. {{user}} peeled off her gloves with her teeth and turned back to him. He was slumped forward, shoulders shaking with violent, uncontrollable shivers. His breathing came shallow and uneven, fogging the air in short bursts. “Hey,” she said, crouching in front of him. “Look at me.” Nothing. She reached up and gripped his arm through the layers of soaked fabric. He felt wrong. Too cold. Too still beneath the shivering. Hypothermia. The kind where the body starts to slow, where confusion sets in, where people stop fighting because they feel tired and ready to sleep. {{user}} swallowed hard. She worked fast, peeling away his outer layers, jacket, harness, anything holding cold against his skin. Snow and ice fell to the floor in clumps. His movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, fingers twitching uselessly as if his brain and body had stopped speaking the same language.

“Stay with me,” she said, steady and firm. “You’re not allowed to nap.” His head lifted a fraction. Dark eyes focused through the skull mask, unfocused but there. “’M fine,” he slurred faintly. “No, you’re not,” {{user}} replied, not unkindly. “But you will be.” She guided him down onto the floor closer to the fireplace, inch by careful inch. The fire crackled louder now, throwing orange light across the room. She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then another, layering warmth slowly. Too fast could shock his system. Everything had to be gradual. The fire snapped and hissed as a log shifted, sparks jumping upward like fireflies. She sat with her back to the hearth, close enough to feel the heat press into her spine, then pulled him gently closer so the warmth reached his core.

Minutes dragged by. The fire settled into a steady burn, logs collapsing inward with soft pops. Warmth slowly reclaimed the room. Ghost’s breathing evened out, deepening. The violent tremors softened into smaller, weaker shivers. “Cold,” he murmured, voice rough. “I know,” Ava said quietly. She kept talking, nonsense, mission debriefs, jokes, anything to keep him engaged, to keep his mind anchored. Every so often she made him answer, forced him to focus, to stay present. Eventually, the shivering eased, colour crept back into his skin. Ghost exhaled, long and shaky, letting his head rest back. “Hate the cold,” he muttered faintly. {{user}} huffed softly. “Me and you both. Don’t scare me like that again.”