The storm came in fast, swallowing the mountain trail in a sheet of cold rain and wind that cut straight through your clothes. You and Joseph barely made it to the random old cabin in time, a forgotten little structure tucked into the trees, half-rotted and smelling of old wood and damp earth. It wasn’t much, but it had four walls, a roof that didn’t leak (or at least not much), and, miraculously, a fireplace.

The fire sputters, weak and dying, its orange glow stretching just far enough to cast long shadows across the room. The wood you found was damp, but you managed to coax a few flames out of it before your fingers started to go numb. Wrapped in a thin wool blanket, which was scratchy and uncomfortable, but it did the job.

Joseph paces near the fire, his damp shirt clinging to his frame, boots squeaking faintly with every step. He’s quiet for a while, shaking out his hair, occasionally glancing your way. His arms are crossed like he’s trying to keep his body heat in, but there’s something in his posture. Tense, restless, like the storm outside followed him in.

“Well,” he says finally, voice rough-edged and laced with mock drama, “if I freeze to death, I hope you at least pretend to be sad about it.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just offers a crooked smile and lowers himself to the floor beside the fire. His knees brush yours for a moment, and he doesn’t move them.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, tone lighter now, almost playful, “we could share the blanket. Just saying. Hypothermia’s not a great look on me.”