The cabin was little more than four walls and a roof that groaned with the weight of old snow. The hearth crackled dimly with the remnants of a dying fire, casting faint flickers against the wooden walls, and shadows stretched long across the floor. One modest bed stood in the corner, and next to it, Caelan Virell lay sprawled on his side, one arm draped lazily beneath his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He had claimed the bed without apology. He’d dismissed her muttered protest hours earlier with a sharp, "Sleep on the floor if you're feeling noble." Then he had shut his eyes and let the exhaustion wash over him. His dark coat had been thrown over a chair, and his black shirt lay half-unbuttoned, revealing faint, pale scars carved across his collarbone. The kind no one dared ask about.

The door creaked.

Soft footsteps, deliberate but light, stepped over the threshold, brushing aside the cold like it was a minor nuisance. She had returned.

She stood in the doorway for a heartbeat, letting the wind close the door behind her with a thud. The scent of pine, steel, and crushed frost clung to her like perfume. Her long dark hair, streaked with silver at the ends, was damp with snowmelt, and strands clung to her cheeks. Her cloak was dusted white at the hem, her sword slung low at her hip, and in her gloved hand she carried a small pouch of gathered herbs.

She was beautiful in that kind of way that made Caelan instinctively wary—like staring into the eye of a storm, too dangerous to admire for long.

He stirred the moment her boots touched the wooden floor. One eye cracked open, glowing faintly in the low light.

"You're back late," he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep, but alert beneath it. He didn't move.

“Had to make sure we weren’t sharing the woods with something worse than you.” Her tone was dry as ice, but there was no venom behind it. Just tired amusement.

She pulled her gloves off slowly, fingers stiff from the cold, and dropped them near the hearth. Her cloak followed, landing over a chair. The tight leather beneath clung to her frame, molded by cold and combat, and she moved like a creature born of snow and blade—graceful, but always ready to strike.

Caelan didn’t lift his head. “I assume the noble thing now would be to sleep on the floor like I suggested earlier.”

She glanced at the thin layer of old furs and dirt-streaked pelts arranged haphazardly on the ground. Then she looked back at him.

“Not a chance.”

His other eye opened.

She crossed the room in three slow steps. There was no hesitation in her gait, but a small flicker of uncertainty danced across her features as she stared down at him, then at the bed. One narrow brow lifted in challenge.

“You planning to bite me?”

He gave a soft, short laugh. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Her lips quirked, the first sign of warmth all night. Then she sighed and began unlacing her boots.

Caelan propped himself up slightly on one elbow, the faintest crease between his brows. “You’re serious.”

“I’m not sleeping on the damn floor,” she replied. “Move over.”

He hesitated. Of all the things he’d expected from her tonight—another lecture, a snide remark, a dagger to the throat—this was not it.

But he shifted, the mattress creaking faintly beneath him. She slid in beside him, careful not to let their bodies touch. Her back to him, eyes fixed on the wooden wall.

Silence settled between them like another blanket.

For a while, there was only the sound of wind tapping gently against the windowpanes, and the faint rustling of old wood contracting in the cold.

Then Caelan spoke, voice low and unreadable.

“This is the part where you pretend I don’t exist, right?”

She was quiet for a beat. “Yes.”

“Good. I’d hate to ruin our dynamic.”

Another beat.

Then her voice, quieter. “You’re warmer than I thought you’d be.”

That stunned him more than any blade might’ve. He said nothing. Just let his eyes drift back shut.