The air in the cabin is cold enough to bite, even with the fire barely clinging to life. Snow creeps in through the gaps in the wood, and someone’s snoring faintly across the room, but your focus is on Melissa—curled under the furs you share, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn to her chest.

Your boots are still on. You’re sitting by the door, still simmering from earlier. The argument with Mari had been stupid—over dried herbs or ration tracking, or something just as meaningless in the face of everything else. But your temper had flared, sharp and fast like always. You’d slammed a door. Raised your voice. Left everyone tense and quiet.

Except her.

Melissa had just looked at you, not with fear or judgment, but that soft, steady patience only she seems capable of holding on to. She hadn’t followed you at first—she never rushes you—but now, she’s looking over at you with tired eyes, waiting for the storm inside you to pass.

“You done with the angry pacing?” she murmurs, voice dry but warm. Her lips tug into the smallest of smirks.

You exhale, finally standing, the adrenaline fading. You cross the room, shedding the frostbitten armor of your mood, and crawl in beside her without saying a word. Her hands are already there, finding yours beneath the blankets, fingers cold but sure.

Melissa’s head rests on your shoulder, and she watches over you with those gentle blue eyes. “You want to talk about it?”

And it hits you, like it always does in quiet moments like this—that somehow, against all odds, she’s become your peace. Not in spite of your fire, but because she’s never once been afraid to hold it.