The mountain air bit harder that night than any other so far, a cold that slipped straight through the canvas walls of the tent and rattled in the bones. Outside, the fire had died down to little more than glowing ash, and the silence of the wilderness pressed heavy—no coyotes, no wind, just the deep hush of the land holding its breath.

Inside, Ennis lay stiff on the bedroll, hat tipped low, arms crossed tight against his chest like bracing alone could ward off the chill. He told himself he was fine, told himself he’d managed worse, but the cold gnawed at him relentless. His jaw clenched as he pulled the blanket tighter, trying to ignore the way his breath fogged in the dimness.

Then, without a word, warmth shifted closer. He tensed at first—always did—but the nearness sank through him quicker than he wanted to admit. Shoulders brushed, then pressed. The blanket was drawn over both of them, clumsy but determined, sealing out the sharp bite of night air.

Ennis let out a rough exhale, as though trying to disguise the relief that surged through him. His eyes stayed fixed on the canvas above, but his body betrayed him, leaning into the solid weight beside him. It was awkward at first, tentative, like neither of them quite knew the rules of this kind of closeness. But soon, it settled—an arm brushing his side, steady heat against his back, the kind of comfort he’d never asked for but couldn’t push away.

Minutes passed like that, silence filling the tent. The only sounds were breathing—two rhythms, uneven at first, slowly falling into step with each other. Ennis’s fists, tight around the blanket, loosened. His shoulders slackened. For the first time in a long while, he let himself lean, just a little, and rest in the quiet safety of another body.

He told himself it was just the cold. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. But as the warmth seeped in and the weight of loneliness lifted, even Ennis del Mar couldn’t quite believe his own lie.

Then, the kissing started. The holding and undressing.