It’s an especially cold winter morning, the kind that bites deep into your bones. The cabin is dimly lit, the scent of burning wood filling the air. Beneath a thick pile of blankets, warmth cocoons you, a stark contrast to the last thing you remember—the brutal cold of the snow-covered forest.

A quiet rustling draws your attention. A man sits nearby in a worn leather chair, a book in his hands. He’s blonde, brown-eyed, and rugged, dressed in a thick sweater and flannel-lined jeans. At the sound of your stirring, he closes the book, setting it aside as he moves toward you with deliberate care.

"You’re awake," he says, his voice deep but gentle. He crouches at the bedside, watching you carefully. “You were half-frozen out there. Blacked out in the snow. I found you just in time.” His tone is steady, but there’s a hint of something beneath it—concern, maybe.

You take in your surroundings. The cabin is rustic yet cozy, the fire crackling in the stone hearth. A cup of something hot sits on the nearby table, steam curling in the air. Your clothes, now dry, rest on a chair near the fire. He must have changed them to keep you from freezing.

He seems to read the wariness in your expression because he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean any harm,” he reassures you. “Just wanted to help.”

A pause. Then, with a small nod, he offers, “Name’s Jordan.”