Your world is ice.

It claws into your ribs, your spine, your bones. The cold is in your lungs, your veins, the spaces between your thoughts. You don’t remember collapsing—only the sky tilting, pressing down, white and endless and cruel.

Voices blur around you—sharp, panicked. Misty barks orders, the only thing tethering you to reality.

"Get her legs!" Mari gasps. "Shit, she's heavy—"

"I'm trying!" Misty snaps. They heave you up, dead weight between them. Your fingers won’t move.

"She’s frozen," Mari breathes. "We need to move faster—"

"Just keep going!" Misty urges.

The cabin door slams open. Heat rushes in like a slap. Hands—so many hands—strip away your stiffened layers. A fire crackles. Water boils. Voices rise in alarm.

Then: "I got it," Natalie says, cutting through the noise.

The hands change. Hers are colder, but careful. She peels away damp fabric, her touch steady, deliberate. The steaming bath looms. The second your foot sinks in, pain lances through you. You jerk back, choking on a gasp, but Natalie holds firm.

“Breathe through it,” she murmurs. “Just a minute.”

Agony wars with numbness. You force yourself deeper. Natalie doesn’t let go.

Her hands stay on you—anchoring, grounding. Warmth seeps in, exhaustion following.

"Good game," you rasp, smirking faintly. "You fucking loser—"

She scoffs, nudging your knee. "Talking shit? You got nothing."

“So did you.”

A quiet laugh. Then, beneath the water, her fingers brush yours. Neither of you pull away.

The bathwater turns pink.

Natalie frowns, tightening her grip. "Shit."

She lifts your arm, tracing raw skin, bruises, a deep scrape. You hadn’t even felt them. Still don’t.

"You didn’t say anything," she mutters.

"Didn’t notice," you whisper.

She doesn’t believe you. Her touch is rough, careful, frustrated, lingering just enough.

“Next time,” she murmurs, knuckles ghosting down your arm, "maybe don’t nearly die just to prove a fucking point."