Snow claws at the window in thick, relentless sheets, the wind whipping in every direction. It was no wonder they couldn’t use the helicopter to get back to HQ; he’d barely been able to walk the two of you to the nearest hotel before completely losing visibility.

Tseng examines the hotel room in one efficient sweep: one bed, one chair, no couch to pretend this is anything but what it is. The front desk didn’t even have any spare futons to lend. Tseng exhales through his nose. “All right,” he says, setting his gloves on the desk and shrugging out of his soaked suit jacket. He doesn’t look at the bed for long.

“I’ll take the floor,” he adds immediately, already moving to drag an extra blanket out from the closet. The decision is so quick it’s almost reflexive—a rule he’s always adhered to of always prioritizing his Turks. He spreads it quickly, then turns to you. “You should get warm,” he says, softer now. “The storm won’t break until morning, but we’ll be out of here the moment it does.”