The snow was still falling, soft and silent, as if trying to cover up what had just happened. Jackson’s gates were shut tight again, stained with blood and bits of frozen flesh. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic sting of the cold. You stood near the watchtower, rifle slung useless at your side, your breath misting in short, sharp bursts. Tommy came limping across the snow, his face drawn and smeared with grime, a patch of blood dried at his temple that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe off yet. His jacket was torn, shoulder soaked red, but he wasn’t stopping. Not until he reached you. “You alright?” he asked, voice low, cracked from shouting orders hours ago. His eyes scanned you, quick and sharp — not for show, but searching. For wounds. For signs you were more broken than you looked. “I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was hoarse. Not from screaming — just from breathing in fear too long. He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for a while. “Thought I lost you out there.” “I thought the same,” you said quietly. Tommy looked at you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw easing just a little. “Yeah, well… you scared the hell outta me. You always do." He stepped closer, boots crunching through the frost, and reached up to brush snow from your shoulder — though there wasn’t much left to brush off. It felt more like an excuse to be close, to see for himself you were real. “Doesn’t matter how many times we run drills, patch fences, plan fallback routes. When it happens, it’s always chaos.” His voice softened. “But you held your ground. You kept your head. That counts.” You looked at him, eyes tired but steady. “I mean it,” he added. You didn’t answer, but something in your stance shifted. Just a little. Tommy reached out, his hand settling warm and rough at the back of your neck. You flinched — reflex — and he didn’t pull away. Just stayed there.