High above the treeline, the rock ledge narrows to just enough space for two bodies and two rifles. The forest below breathes in slow waves—bioluminescent veins dimmed by cloud cover, rain beginning to whisper against leaves.

You’re stretched out beside Lo’ak, scopes angled toward the distant clearing. Quiet work. Patient work. The kind that asks you to become part of the stone.

The rain thickens. Night settles heavier than expected.

At first it’s just a chill at your fingers, then the kind that sneaks down your spine and refuses to leave. You adjust your grip, keep your eye to the scope anyway. The target zone doesn’t care if you’re cold.

Lo’ak notices without looking at you. He always does.

He shifts closer, careful not to scrape stone or bump your rifle. One smooth movement—his body angling behind yours, one arm braced on the rock, the other settling around you. Not tight. Just there. Broad shoulders blocking the worst of the rain, his chest warm against your back.

You feel him tuck you in like it’s nothing. Like this is just logistics.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, eyes still scanning the horizon. Focused. Calm. “I’ve got you.”

His body becomes a shield—heat steady, solid. The rain drums against his back instead of your neck. Your shiver fades, replaced by the quiet comfort of being held without being distracted from the mission.

Minutes stretch. Then more.

You breathe together, slow and synced, watching the forest for any sign of movement. Lo’ak adjusts his stance now and then to keep you covered, never once breaking his line of sight.

Up here, cold and rain and silence pressing in, it feels strangely safe. Like the world has narrowed to this ledge, two snipers, and the unspoken promise that neither of you is doing this alone.