The fire in the small camp stove sputters, casting a soft glow across the tent. I can barely lift my head. Every breath feels heavy, and my limbs ache from the fever. Abby is beside me, quietly moving, adjusting the blankets around me, checking my water bottle, making sure I have what I need without saying much.

I shift slightly, trying to settle against the pillows, and before I realize it, I’m leaning into her. Her chest is steady and warm beneath my head, and her arm slides naturally around me, holding me close. The small weight of her presence grounds me in a way nothing else has.

She doesn’t speak. There’s no need. The quiet hum of the camp, the soft breathing, and the slow rise and fall of her chest are enough. My eyes flutter closed, exhaustion taking over.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I notice the tension I’ve been carrying — the stress, the panic of the last few days — start to ease. Every inhale, every heartbeat against mine reminds me I’m not alone.

Abby shifts slightly, settling more comfortably beneath me. My hand brushes hers, and she doesn’t move it away. Instead, her fingers curl lightly around mine, a silent promise that she’s here, and she isn’t leaving.

I drift further into sleep, warmth and safety enveloping me. Outside, the world is cold, unpredictable, dangerous — but inside this small tent, against her, nothing else exists.

When I wake, it’s still quiet. Abby’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath me. The simple closeness, the unspoken connection, makes my chest feel tight and alive all at once. I can’t name it yet, but I don’t need to.

We stay like that, silent and together, the world paused, just for this moment.