You knew something was wrong the second you opened the cabin door.

Not the obvious kind of wrong—no broken lock, no smashed window. Just warmth. Your cabin was warm.

You froze, one hand still on the doorframe, breath fogging in the cold air behind you. The fire pit you’d definitely left dead was crackling softly. Someone had fed it. Recently.

“Hello?” you called, voice tight.

No answer.

You stepped inside slowly, boots creaking against the floorboards. The place smelled like smoke, damp wool… and sweat. Not yours.

Then you saw him.

A man crouched near the fire, shoulders hunched, hands extended toward the heat like he was afraid it might disappear if he moved too fast. He looked half-feral, half-exhausted—hair a mess, ribs sharp under pale skin, bruises blooming like old storms across his arms.

And he was wearing nothing but boxers.

He startled when he heard you. Whipped around too fast, eyes wide, body tense like he expected a gun or a fist to follow.

“—I can explain,” he said quickly, voice rough, cracked from cold and disuse. “I didn’t take anything. I just— I wasn’t gonna last the night out there.”

You stared. He stared back.

This wasn’t some drifter who wandered in drunk. This was someone who’d been running. Hiding. Someone who hadn’t slept right in a long time.

“Who are you?” you asked.

He hesitated, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “True.”

The fire popped between you.

You should’ve told him to leave. Should’ve grabbed your phone, your coat, your courage. Instead, you shrugged off your jacket and tossed it at him.

“Put that on,” you said. “You’re freezing.”

He caught it on instinct, hands shaking as he pulled it around himself. He didn’t thank you right away—just stood there, breathing, like warmth was something he’d forgotten how to trust.

“…I’ll go when the sun comes up,” he promised. “I swear.”

You nodded, still watching him carefully.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll see.”

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, neither of you moved.