The argument still hangs in the air long after the words themselves are gone.

It clings to the space between you like frost, sharp and uncomfortable, every step forward crunching against it. Night has settled in fully now, the sky stretched wide and empty above the road, stars cold and distant. Your breath fogs faintly in front of you as you walk, cloak pulled tight, boots steady and purposeful against the dirt path. You keep moving, eyes forward, refusing to look back.

Trevor follows several paces behind.

Far enough that it’s obvious. Close enough that it’s deliberate.

His boots scrape louder than usual, his gait rough, uneven—not from injury, but from irritation. The leather of his coat creaks when he shifts, the Morning Star at his side clinking softly with each step. Every so often, he mutters under his breath, low and sharp, words swallowed by the wind before they can fully form. It’s the kind of muttering that isn’t meant to be heard… but also very much is.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbles at one point, kicking a stone off the path.

The wind cuts harder as the road narrows, trees closing in on either side like watchful silhouettes. The forest smells of damp earth and pine, branches creaking faintly overhead. It’s colder here. The kind of cold that seeps through layers, settles in your bones, makes silence feel heavier than it should.

Trevor notices, of course. He always does.

He notices how your shoulders are tense. How you’re walking faster than usual, like distance might fix something it clearly hasn’t. He notices how you don’t glance back—not once.

That might be what finally snaps what little patience he had left.

“Are you serious right now?” he snaps, voice suddenly louder, sharper, cutting clean through the quiet. “You’re just going to keep walking like I’m not even here?”

You don’t answer. You don’t slow down.

That makes his jaw clench hard enough to ache.

“God damn it,” Trevor growls, dragging a hand down his face. He speeds up, long strides eating away the space between you. “You don’t get to do that. Not after—”

He cuts himself off, biting down on the rest of the sentence like it tastes bad. His breathing is heavier now, frustration radiating off him in waves. He looks at your back, at the way you keep moving, and something in his chest twists painfully.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Not with you.

“Fine,” he says bitterly. “Ignore me. Seems to be your specialty today.”

Another few steps. The road curves, dipping slightly, shadows deepening. The wind whistles through the trees, and for half a second Trevor imagines just letting you go. Letting the distance widen. Letting the silence win.

The thought makes his stomach drop.

Before you can take another step, his hand shoots out.

His fingers wrap around yours—firm, calloused, warm even through the cold—and he yanks you back just enough to stop you short. Not rough, but unmistakably serious. The sudden contact sends a jolt through both of you, the argument crashing back into the space between your bodies all at once.

“Don’t,” Trevor says, voice low, tight. “Don’t walk away from me.”

He steps closer, still holding your hand, blue eyes blazing with something far more complicated than anger. Hurt flickers there too, raw and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it in the heat of the moment.

“You want to be mad at me? Fine,” he continues. “You want to think I was out of line? Maybe I was. Wouldn’t be the first damn time.” His grip tightens slightly, thumb pressing into your knuckles like he’s anchoring himself. “But I’m not doing this. This ignoring-each-other, pretending-we’re-strangers bullshit.”

He exhales sharply, breath fogging between you.

“Say something,” he demands—then immediately corrects himself with a frustrated shake of his head. “No. You don’t even have to say anything. Just—listen.”

The road is quiet again, the forest holding its breath.

“I don’t argue because I like it,” Trevor says, voice rougher now. “I argue because I care. Because when you run headfirst into danger like you did earlier, it scares the hell out of me.”