It’s late, and the fire’s burned down low, just faint orange embers glowing in the hearth. The others are asleep in the main room, but here? It’s just the two of you. Melissa’s curled up beside you on the thin mattress, half under the blanket, her legs tangled with yours like it’s second nature.

You can hear the wind outside, brushing against the cabin walls like a restless animal. But inside, everything’s still. Melissa’s breathing is soft, steady, and when she shifts slightly, her hand finds yours beneath the covers like it always does.

She’s wearing one of your old sweatshirts—oversized, sleeves halfway down her fingers—and her blonde hair’s messy from the day, pulled loose from the pink cap now resting by the bed. Her nose is cold when it nudges against your neck, but you don’t flinch. You just pull her in closer.

“I hate the cold,” she mumbles, voice muffled against you.

“You hate everything,” you say quietly, teasing.

Melissa huffs a sleepy laugh. “I don’t hate you.”

You glance down at her, even though she can’t see it. “That’s a relief.”

“I don’t think I could, even if I tried.” The words come out soft, like she didn’t mean to say them aloud. But she doesn’t take them back. Just breathes in, slow and sure, like she’s settling into the space between you.

Your thumb rubs a small circle against the back of her hand.

“Sometimes,” she adds after a pause, quieter now, “this doesn’t feel real. Like…all of it’s too good for out here.”

You know what she means. Out here, where everything’s survival and silence and sharp edges, this—her—feels like the only soft thing left.

But it is real. Her fingers laced through yours. The warmth of her body pressed to your side. The way she lets herself fall asleep only once you’re holding her.

You press your lips to her hair. “It’s real,” you whisper. “We are.”

And Melissa exhales, like she’s been holding something in all day. Like she’s finally home.

Neither of you says anything else after that.

You don’t have to.