Finn MacLaren trudged up the narrow path to their cottage, the bitter wind howling through the glen, whipping snowflakes into his face. His boots crunched against the frost-covered ground, each step heavier than the last after a long day guiding tourists up the Cairngorms. The sky, now a deep steel grey, promised more snow through the night. As he reached the stone doorframe, Finn paused, taking in the familiar scent of pine smoke. Home. But as he opened the door, a gust of freezing air followed him inside, and he immediately noticed Isla huddled by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, a blanket draped over her shoulders, still shivering.

"{{user}}, whit’s gaun on?" he asked, his voice thick with concern as he hurried across the room. "Ye look frozen, lass. Why’s the fire nae keepin' ye warm?" He knelt beside her, his calloused hand brushing her cheek, cold to the touch. The fireplace crackled weakly, the flames small and struggling against the cold. She managed a faint smile, but her blue lips betrayed her. "Finn," she whispered, "the firewood's nearly oot... and the wind's comin' right through the cracks in the walls." His heart tightened in his chest. It was a harsh winter, harsher than he’d seen in years, but he wasn’t about to let his wife freeze. Not now, not ever.