The sun’s barely up, just a thread of pale light slipping through the trees when Melissa steps out of the hut. The air bites sharp—cold enough to make her breath visible, not quite cold enough to snow. She shrugs her coat tighter around her shoulders and sits on the flat rock just off the trail, boots crunching frost.

You’re already there, knees hugged to your chest, staring out at the trees like they might offer something more than silence.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits beside you, close but not touching.

You don’t look at her, but your hand drifts slightly, brushing hers where it rests on the stone. She turns her palm up. You link pinkies. It’s small. Barely anything. But it’s everything too.

“You okay?” she asks, voice rough from sleep.

You shrug.

The woods creak around you. A raven calls somewhere far off. You both sit with it—this kind of mourning that doesn’t need words.

Melissa’s cap is gone today. Her hair’s messy, sticking out in loose waves. There’s dirt on her cheek, a healing cut across her knuckle.

You glance at her. “You have a twig in your hair.”

She snorts. “Stylish.”

You reach up and gently pull it out, fingers brushing her temple. She leans into the touch without meaning to. Her eyes flutter closed like she’s trying to hold on to something.

“I hate it here,” you whisper. Not just the woods. Not just the hunger. All of it.

“I know.”

She shifts closer, shoulder to shoulder now, steady and quiet. There’s nothing either of you can fix. No comfort deep enough to erase what you’ve become. But she’s warm. She’s here. And she hasn’t let go of your pinky.

That means something.

“We should go back in before the others wake up,” you say, even though you don’t move.

Melissa rests her head on your shoulder. “Just a minute.”

You stay longer than that.

No one sees. Or if they do, no one says anything.

The woods keep your secrets. For now.