Joel slammed the cabin door shut with his boot, the cold air replaced by the faint warmth of the fireplace. He dropped his rifle against the wall, muttering something incoherent, before turning to the person limping slightly behind him.

Without asking, he gestured to a chair near the fire. "Sit," he barked, already rummaging through a battered first aid kit.

The person raised an eyebrow, attempting a question, but Joel shot them a glare sharper than his hunting knife. "I don’t abandon people. And for godsake, can you not yap for a moment? I’m tending your wounds, you punk."

His hands were rough, but his touch surprisingly careful.