The sound woke you first.

Lashes fluttering, limbs tucked into the comforting warmth of your blankets and body heat, you almost didn’t want to leave the sanctuary of your bed.

Scrape. Grate. Scrapeeee. Scrape-scrape.

With a groan, you begrudgingly open your eyes, your gaze blearily settling on the window adjacent from the bed. Through the moth-eaten curtains, the outside world is blank, white as can be. No wind howls in the rafters, the morning so quiet it carries a certain finality to it, as though time seems to stand still. You blink, sleep chased away by the movement as your eyes finally adjust to the scene beyond the glass.

Snow.

In typical Colorado fashion, the ivory powder blankets any and every surface in sight, as far as the eye can see. It’s stopped falling overnight, but it’s obvious that if you were to dip a foot into it, your leg would sink into the pillowy matter like lead in water. The only contrast in the environment is the dark, wet wood of the trees and their branches, snow layered atop each limb like icing; not even the sky holds any color, instead blending into the world like an opaque blank dome. It’d almost feel otherworldly, if the quiet wasn’t disrupted by—

Scrape. Scrape-scrape, Scrape.

Brows knitting, you finally force yourself out of bed, the blankets rustling in the quiet of the room, curiosity winning over the stubborn desire for more rest. Changing out of your sleepwear and pulling on warmer layers, you set off downstairs to make your way through the kitchen and living area toward the front porch. It’s there that the mysterious scraping noise meets your ears, loud and echoing amidst the wintry atmosphere.

Standing with his back to you, is who you assume to be Toby, his twitching silhouette hunched over with a bright red shovel, plowing and hauling ginormous scoops of snow from the gravelly driveway one heavy-looking section at a time. He’s dressed warmly — thank god — a thick, wool-lined coat accessorized with a furry collar worn over his signature sweatshirt, his shaggy hair sticking out in wet feathery layers beneath a ushanka style hat. Judging by the piles of snow on the path’s border, he’d been at this for a while, however you wouldn’t think so based on the way he shows a startling lack of exhaustion, muscles coiled and arms tense despite the relaxed way he regards you, gloved hands folded atop the shovel’s handle.

“Toby,” you call out, breath clouding the air in front of you. Standing huddled close by the porch’s banister, you’re able to feel the warmth from the cabin’s interior at your back, only making the biting cold that much more apparent.

He turns with a small chirp, stiffening before meeting you with a languid posture, his ears, nose, and lips tinged a darker red on his otherwise pale face, while the shadows of his under-eyes and cheekbones are only amplified by his fair complexion against the white backdrop of forest. His chest heaves lightly from bated breath, despite the lack of a sweat on his features — thanks to his CIPA. Teeth worrying at the glint of his lip piercings, he gives you a jerky nod in greeting, scratching absently at the dark facial hair lining his chin and jawline.

“Where’re Tim and Brian?” you ask, having noticed their absence inside. Toby clears his throat, responding casually:

“O-Out. They left on a puh-p-p-“ his lips twist into a violent cringe, frustrated as he struggles on the word, “—patrol on the woods’ outskirts while you were s-suh-ssleeping.”