The fire in the old wood stove crackled weakly, its heat barely reaching the corners of the abandoned cabin. Dust floated through moonlight like ghosts too tired to haunt. You sat wrapped in a patched-up blanket, shivering slightly—not from the cold, but from the way the day had ended.

The bite of frost.

The silence after screaming.

The blood.

You didn’t hear Ethan come in until the door creaked shut behind him. Boots heavy with mud, coat soaked with melted snow and dried crimson. His eyes met yours—tired, bruised, but full of that same quiet concern.

“You still cold?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You didn’t answer, just gave him a nod. He crossed the room and knelt beside the stove, checking the wood, muttering something under his breath about needing more dry kindling. Then, after a pause, he turned to you again.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

You looked away. “You would’ve done the same.”

He sighed and stood, the old floorboards creaking under his weight. Instead of arguing, he simply walked over and sat beside you on the floor, pulling off his gloves. His fingers, scarred and calloused, reached out to tuck the blanket around your shoulders more tightly. It wasn’t graceful, but it was careful.

“I’m used to fighting monsters.” His voice was quiet now. “I’m not used to… someone caring enough to be reckless for me.”