The wind howled like wolves outside the old, half-frozen cabin, and you were still talking. Laughing, even. Arthur sat slumped in a rickety chair near the fireplace, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he stared at the flames like they owed him something. Snow pelted the windows. It was freezing. It was miserable. And worst of all, it was just the two of you.

“You ever think snowflakes look like tiny little stars?” you asked, bundled in too many layers, your breath puffing in the air between words.

Arthur didn’t even look up. “You ever think about shuttin’ up for two minutes?”

You grinned like he’d paid you a compliment. “Oh c’mon, I’m just trying to make conversation. We’re stuck here.”

He sighed. Deep, dramatic. “Ain’t like talkin’s gonna make the snow stop.” He tugged his coat tighter, trying to ignore the pang of guilt crawling up his spine. You were just a kid. Dutch’s kid. But damn, you were cheerful in a way that grated against every part of him that had been hardened by life.

Still, you were trying. And he was failing to be as heartless as he pretended to be.