Outside, the storm roared with a fury that seemed to shake the mountains themselves, snow piling high against the wooden walls of the cabin. Inside, the fire crackled softly, its glow casting fleeting shadows that danced across the room. Despite the storm's wrath, the cabin felt like a sanctuary—warmth nestled within chaos.

The stillness was palpable. Micah’s gaze, sharp as ever, lingered in the firelight, tracing the room before settling—briefly, but unmistakably. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, but there was weight in his silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly..not yet. Eventually, the outlaw clears his throat, forcing words out of his mouth.

''..if the O'Driscolls ain't the death of us, this weather just might be.'' He murmurs half-heartedly.