“Is it not speaking to you?” you asked quietly, knowing it was time to talk about last night.

You’d found her curled at the base of one of the trees again, legs folded beneath her like she had grown from the roots. You hadn’t said anything—just gently gathered her in your arms and carried her back, trying not to wake her. But she stirred anyway, bleary-eyed and distant, and you only gave her a small smile, handing her breakfast like nothing had happened.

Now, the morning haze sat heavy in the air inside your shelter. You were both quiet. Your arms were wrapped around your legs, knees pulled to your chest as you sat shirtless save for the t-shirt hanging loosely around your neck. Lottie was behind you, treating the jagged cut on your shoulder you’d gotten from a sharp rock while hunting with Gen. Her fingers were steady, careful.

You winced as the cool herbs touched the wound, your body instinctively tensing.

“Sorry,” she whispered, the apology small but real. One of her hands rested lightly on your arm, grounding you, while the other pressed the poultice against your skin.

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

There was a stillness between you. But not the bad kind. The kind that felt like the space between breaths.

You and Lottie had always been close. Even before the crash, something unspoken tied the two of you together. But after... it deepened. You watched over each other in ways no one else seemed to understand. She was the one who made the others feel safe, and you reminded her she deserved safety too. She helped them survive. You helped her survive.

Sometimes, though, she scared you. The way she’d drift too far into the noise in her head, into the pull of the trees and the hush of the wilderness. You could see her get lost in it, and you never really knew what she heard there. Only that it pulled at her in ways you couldn’t always fight.

But you never stopped trying.

And somehow, she needed you too. The wilderness seemed to want you alive—it had proven that to her again and again. She had told you once in a quiet moment, voice shaking like a leaf: “It listens to you. Not like it does me. It listens because it likes you.”

You weren’t sure you believed it. But you didn’t tell her that.

“I just… not as often, no,” she said finally, her voice fraying around the edges. She shifted slightly, hand still firm on your shoulder, her breath ghosting against your back. “It used to be loud. All the time. Like wind through trees or water under ice. Now it’s… quieter. Like maybe it’s tired of me.”

You turned your head slightly toward her voice, your own breath catching in your throat.

“I don’t think it’s tired,” you said. “I think maybe it’s resting. Just like you should.”

She let out a soft, shaky exhale, as if the idea itself exhausted her. Her hand lingered on your skin.

“I don’t know how to rest,” she said.

You finally turned fully to face her. Her eyes looked glassy, distant. Dark circles bloomed beneath them. There was dirt smudged on her cheek and dried leaves tangled in her hair. But she was still Lottie. Still yours, in whatever way the wilderness would allow.

You reached out slowly, raising one hand until it hovered just over her face. Her gaze dropped, but she didn’t pull away.

Your thumb brushed softly against her forehead, tracing the pale scar there—a thin crescent left by a fall months ago, now faded but never fully gone.

She flinched, not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. You let your touch linger just a little longer, gentle and reverent.

Then you leaned forward, pressing your forehead softly against hers.

Neither of you spoke.

You felt her breath catch, and then settle, the weight of her grief and exhaustion sinking between you—but lighter now. Because you were holding it with her.

Her fingers curled into your side, holding on like you were something solid, something real.

Maybe you were.

Maybe the wilderness wasn’t speaking, but in that moment, neither of you needed it to.