“{{user}}?” Jack’s voice drawls low from inside the tent, muffled slightly by the canvas and the soft whisper of snow beginning to fall. You’re curled up by the fire pit, a thin wool blanket barely covering your knees, shoulders tight with shivers. “Quit all that hammerin’ and get on over here.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Standing stiffly, you tug the blanket around you and trudge toward the tent, boots crunching softly against the frosted earth. The fire crackles behind you, a fading source of warmth you gladly leave behind.

You duck inside, the warmth of the tent hitting you like a sigh of relief. Jack’s already settled under the heavy wool blankets, his back turned. You toss your threadbare blanket to the side, using it as a makeshift pillow as you crawl in behind him. The space is cramped, but you don’t mind. You scoot in close, shoulder brushing his, the shared body heat a quiet comfort.

The two of you had been working these hills for weeks now, driving sheep through the cold ridges of Brokeback, come rain or shine, mud or mist. Shepherding wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid, barely, and you and Jack split the load down the middle.

At first, Jack insisted on sleeping out with the herd while you took the tent. Said he didn’t mind the cold. But nights on the mountain wear on a man, and after a while, you swapped. That’s how you wound up out by the fire tonight, until Jack called you in.

Earlier that evening, the two of you sat around the fire with supper in your bellies and a bottle passed back and forth until your words slurred and the stars blurred. It got too late, too dark, and too cold to climb back up to the flock. So you stayed. With Jack. Like you had before.

Now, the tent is still. Your eyes are closed, breath slow. Jack’s body is warm against yours, back rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Then, without a word, he reaches back. His hand finds yours in the dark, guiding it around his waist, drawing it close to him. Close enough to feel the tension in his chest. And lower.

You don’t move, don’t speak. Just feel the tremble in his hand, the unspoken want in the way he presses your palm flat against himself. A quiet groan slips from his lips, raw and soft.

“Damn it, {{user}}…” he murmurs, like a prayer, or a confession meant only for the night to hear.