The snowstorm wasn’t meant to hit like this.

The forecast had promised light snowfall. Nothing serious. Not the kind of storm that swallowed the road behind them and buried the front porch in under an hour. But now here they were—trapped halfway up a mountain in a cabin barely fit for shelter, no heat, no signal, and no way back until the weather eased up.

And of all the people he could be stuck with… it had to be you.

The cabin creaked in the wind, its walls groaning like they might just give in. The fire in the hearth was barely alive, flickering weakly in a bed of ash. Cold bled in from every gap in the wood. His breath hung in the air, white and sharp. The place smelled of damp wood, soot, and underneath it all, you. That clean, sharp scent you always carried after training. It curled around him like a reminder he didn’t want.

You were on the other side of the room, sitting stiff-backed with that same stubborn look he knew too well. You’d been butting heads since your first week on the team.

Him, the blunt force. You, the sharp mouth.

You were built to clash. And god, you did.

He paced near the door, boots heavy on the worn floorboards. His shirt clung to his back, still damp with melted snow. His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead. He shoved it back with one hand, breathing hard through the cold, and looked at you.

“Ye had one job,” he said, voice low and biting like the wind outside. “Bring the bloody map.”

You just stared back like he wasn’t worth the energy.

He crossed his arms, the firelight catching the scar on his brow, the tense line of his jaw. “But naw, ye couldnae even manage that.”

The silence between you thickened. The only sounds were the wind rattling the windows and the fire barely holding on. His pulse pounded beneath his skin, hot and restless.

He let out a short, bitter laugh and shook his head.

“And now we’re stuck. No signal, no heat, freezin’ our arses off.” His accent came out rougher when he was angry, the edges of every word sharper.

He dropped onto the bench by the fire, the wood groaning under his weight, and rubbed a hand across his jaw. The stubble rasped under his palm. His fingers were stiff with cold, knuckles still sore from yesterday’s scrimmage—the one where he pulled you out of a hit that would’ve wrecked your shoulder. Not that you thanked him.

“Jist keep out ma way,” he muttered.

But even then, he looked at you again. Couldn’t help it.The red flush across your cheeks from the cold, the way your hands clenched like you wanted to hit something. Or him.

You’d been getting under his skin since day one. You talked back. You kept pace. You never gave an inch. And worse, you made him feel like he was always being seen, like you could read between everything he didn’t say.

He used to think it was just rivalry. That fire that caught whenever you were near each other. The arguments, the tension, the way his chest got tight whenever your shoulder brushed his in the locker room. But now, locked in here with you, every breath felt heavier. Every silence dragged. Every glance stuck.

You made him burn hotter than this useless fire ever could. And he hated that part of him—deep, quiet, buried under years of control—wanted you to feel the same.