The wind cut like knives through the tent fabric. Snow drifted past the thin opening, and every breath came out as a cloud. You cursed under your breath, tugging your jacket tighter.

Across from you, Hangman was irritatingly relaxed, lying back on his rolled-up pack. “You’re shaking, darlin’. That’s not gonna help your pride or your temperature.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re blue.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He lifted a brow, lazy and smug even under three layers of gear. “Survival rule number one: don’t freeze to death out of stubbornness.”

You shot him a glare. “Rule number two: don’t flirt with your partner while they’re armed.”

He grinned, eyes glinting in the low lantern light. “That a threat or a promise?”

You rolled your eyes, muttering something about transferring partners. But then the wind howled louder, rattling the tent poles, and even you couldn’t hide your shiver.

Jake sat up, tone shifting — not teasing, but calm. “Come here.”

You hesitated. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. One sleeping bag. Shared heat. Don’t make it weird.”

You snorted. “Everything with you is weird.”

“Then it’ll feel normal,” he said, tugging the zipper down. “C’mon.”

You crawled in reluctantly, arms crossed — until the cold forced you closer. His warmth was immediate, steady, infuriatingly comfortable.

“See?” he murmured near your ear. “Told you I was good under pressure.”

You didn’t look at him. “You’re impossible.”

Jake chuckled, low and quiet. “And warm. Don’t forget warm.”