It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight job.

Get in, sweep the site, exfil by sundown.

The op went sideways—extraction delayed, comms patchy, storm rolling in faster than anyone could predict. A freak blizzard turned the mountains into a whiteout maze, and the safest fallback was a half-buried hunting cabin clinging to the edge of a frozen ravine.

They barely made it inside before the storm hit full force.

The walls groaned. The wind howled. Visibility was gone. And inside, five soldiers crowded into a space built for maybe two.

The radio squawked now and then with static-filled check-ins. No help yet. No way down. Just them, their gear, and a pile of half-frozen MREs.

Gaz found the firewood. Soap got the generator running—barely. Ghost did a full sweep, cleared every window and door, then settled into the corner like a watchdog. And Price, ever the anchor, took charge of rationing the supplies and calmly assessed how long they might be stuck.

But then there was the issue of warmth.

It was bitter. No insulation. The fire struggled. They had one real blanket, two if anyone wanted to fight Soap for his ratty thermal one, and not nearly enough layers to go around.

{{user}}’s gloves were soaked through. Jacket, too. Boots stiff with frost. Shivering had turned into the dangerous kind—quiet, teeth no longer chattering, just a blank, drained look that set off alarm bells in every trained pair of eyes.

And suddenly, boundaries became very optional.

It started with Gaz, practical as ever, tugging {{user}} down beside him on the couch-turned-makeshift-bed. “Body heat. Survival. Don’t make it weird,” he muttered, already pressing {{user}}’s hands between his own.

Then Soap dragged over the other blanket, dropped it over all three of them, and wedged himself in like it was the most natural thing in the world. “S’not weird unless someone makes it weird,” he said, clearly planning to make it weird anyway.

Ghost didn’t move. Just stared from the corner with that unreadable expression.

Price came last, after the fire finally caught. He looked over the three of them—piled together, half-asleep—and sighed like a man conceding defeat to something inevitable. He sat down at the foot of the couch, pulled the last of the dry blankets over his shoulder, and didn’t say a word when Soap muttered something smug about a “Captain cuddle puddle.”