“Oh, so now you’re not gonna say anything?”

Van’s voice cuts through the cold night air, sharp and unrelenting. The others are back at camp, but you and Van? You’re out here, far enough that no one can hear, far enough that the argument that started as a whisper has turned into something raw and ugly.

You cross your arms, jaw tight. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Van.”

She scoffs, throwing her hands up. “I want you to be honest with me for once!” Her voice cracks, she looks wild in the firelight—flushed cheeks, clenched fists. “You keep acting like everything’s fine when it’s not. It hasn’t been fine since—”

She stops herself, biting the words back. You know what she’s not saying. Since the crash. Since the hunt. Since the hunger started pressing in like a second skin.

You swallow hard. “And yelling at me is gonna fix that?”

Van exhales sharply, “No. But pretending like none of this is getting to you? Like it’s not getting to me? That sure as hell isn’t gonna fix it either.”

Your chest tightens. You hate this—fighting with her, snapping at each other when all you really want is to hold onto her and never let go.

You see the way her hands shake, the way her breath comes unsteady. But she isn’t the enemy. She never has been. You step forward, reaching for her. She stiffens at first but doesn’t pull away when your hands settle on her shoulders.

“Van, we shouldn’t be doing this.” Your voice drops, softer now. “Not to each other. We’re—fuck, we’re lucky, okay? Lucky to have this. To have each other. I don’t wanna waste it screaming in the woods.”

Her breath hitches. She’s still tense, still stubborn, but then her forehead drops against yours, fingers curling into your jacket like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

“Yeah,” she murmurs after a long beat, voice rough. “Yeah, okay.”

And just like that, the fight is gone, swallowed by the wind and the trees and the feeling of Van exhaling against your skin, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.