The covers were heavier than snow—warm, stifling, unfamiliar. Dongze’s eyes opened to the muted glow of a hearth-lit room, the scent of pine resin and boiled rice in the air. His limbs ached in protest as he shifted, memories slipping in through the haze: the crack of storm-wind, his breath frosting over inside the makeshift shelter, a voice soft as snowfall calling to him from the dark.

He sat up slowly, the borrowed tunic clinging to his skin with the stiffness of unfamiliar care. Someone had peeled away his soaked leathers, wrapped him in layers not his own. His sword was gone—but not far. It lay by the doorway, propped against the wall with quiet reverence. That alone steadied his breath.

The creak of old wood under his feet echoed as he limped into the next room, drawn by the faint clatter of ladle against pot. You stood with your back to him, sleeves tied neatly at the elbows, stirring porridge as if he hadn't nearly died two nights prior.

“…You should’ve left me there,” he said hoarsely, voice cracking like old ice. “Would’ve saved you the trouble.”

Then, as if realizing the foolishness of his own words, he grimaced and looked away. “I don’t repay kindness well.”