The cold bit deep. It was the kind of cold that wrapped itself around your bones and refused to let go, and out here—in the endless, unforgiving Canadian wilderness—there was no warmth waiting to find you.

You didn’t mean to slip. One second, you were climbing down the frozen ridge after searching for firewood, the next your foot caught on a loose patch of ice and sent you tumbling. The pain came sharp and fast—your ankle twisted hard beneath you. The world spun, white and ruthless. By the time you managed to sit up, the snow was already starting to turn red.

“Shit,” a voice cut through the wind. Low, annoyed—relieved. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Natalie.

You barely had time to register her voice before she dropped to her knees beside you, her breath sharp and fast in the cold air. The edge in her voice didn’t hide the concern in her eyes. It never really did.

“Let me see,” she muttered, brushing aside your protests with a roll of her eyes. Natalie’s hands were cold but steady, her fingers pressing carefully around your ankle. She winced before you did. “Yeah, that’s not good.”

Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes. Dirt streaked her cheek. She still wore that same threadbare army jacket—ripped at the shoulder—and underneath all that snark and steel, you could see it: the fear. The fear of losing someone else.

“I’m not leaving you here,” she said before you could ask. “So don’t even start.”

The others were still at the makeshift camp, probably arguing about food or rationing or whether that howl last night was just wind or something with teeth. But Natalie didn’t care. Right now, you were her focus.

And something in that mattered more than the pain.

More than the cold.

More than whatever else was out there in the woods.