The storm descended without mercy.

One moment, {{user}} and Nyx were weaving through the last stretch of the mountain trail—silent, cold, focused—and the next, a wall of white swallowed the world whole. Wind howled like a beast unchained, flinging sleet and snow in every direction, erasing the path they’d fought so hard to carve. The only safe haven was the crumbling silhouette of an old hunting cabin, half-buried in the drifts and long-forgotten by anyone but the wild.

{{user}} slammed the door shut behind them, bracing against the gust that tried to rip it back open. Her chest heaved, breath visible in the freezing air, and her eyes immediately found him.

Nyx stood just feet away, one hand braced against the wall, blood trailing in ribbons down his side. The tear in his leathers bared the wound—angry, raw, and still bleeding. He didn’t complain, didn’t even look at it. Typical.

{{user}} peeled off her soaked coat and gloves, teeth gritted, and crossed the creaking floorboards toward him. “Sit. Now.”

Nyx didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the edge of the stone hearth with a hiss through clenched teeth, tension locking his jaw. His violet eyes followed her every movement as she knelt beside him, the fire she’d sparked from flint and kindling casting them in flickering warmth. The cabin groaned under the weight of the storm, but inside, it was just the two of them—close, too close—and the heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

{{user}}’s fingers worked fast, tugging open his ruined tunic to inspect the gash. She felt him watching her, even as she kept her gaze on the wound. “It needs stitches,” she murmured, voice soft but sharp.

“I’ve had worse,” Nyx replied, low. But the tension in his voice betrayed him.