Snow comes down thick enough to hush the world.

They were supposed to do one last run—just one—before closing. That’s what Rowan had said, grinning like he always does, storm-blue eyes bright, board tucked under his arm like a promise he might break. {{user}} had rolled their eyes, but they followed anyway. They always did.

Now they’re halfway up the mountain, wind picking up, patrol radios crackling with warnings. Visibility drops from okay to nope in minutes.

“Okay—yeah—that’s my bad,” Rowan laughs, breath fogging, already reaching for their wrist. Not grabbing. Just there. Anchoring. “Cabin’s this way.”

They follow him through the blur of white, their outline cutting through the storm beside his. Rowan moves like he always does—big, steady, making space for them in a world that doesn’t always bother.

The patrol cabin is small. Wooden. Warm in that stubborn, imperfect way. Rowan shoulders the door open, stomps snow from his boots, and immediately turns to them like they’re the priority.

“You good?” he asks, scanning their face like it matters more than the storm outside.

“I’m good,” they say, but their fingers are numb and their laugh comes out shaky.

“C’mere.” He’s already pulling off his gloves, rubbing their hands between his like friction might fix everything. His knuckles are scraped again—of course they are—but his touch is gentle, careful, like he’s handling something breakable.

The wind howls. The door rattles. They’re stuck here for a while.

Rowan looks around the cabin—bench, dusty blanket, a tiny heater that hums like it’s trying its best—and shrugs out of his jacket. He drapes it over their shoulders without making a big deal of it, like it’s just… obvious.

“You’re gonna freeze,” they protest.

He grins. “I run hot.”

“You run reckless.”

“Semantics.”

They sit on the bench, bundled in his jacket that smells like pine and cold air and something warm underneath. Rowan drops beside them, close enough that their shoulders touch, not close enough to assume anything.

Silence settles in. Not awkward. Just… quiet.

“Sorry,” he says after a minute, softer now. “Didn’t mean to drag you into a snowstorm.”