You stared down at your boots—scuffed, cracked at the seams, and too damn thin for this kind of cold. The kind of cold that got in your bones and stayed there. And it was only the beginning of winter. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, dry, dead grass crunching beneath your soles like brittle paper. A bird caught in place, wings folded tight.

Across the field, the cabins stood like hunched ghosts, dusted in snow, their roofs sagging and silent. But at least the gang had found a place. Safe, for now. Close enough to the trees for cover, far enough from town to stay unnoticed. Old trapper cabins. Smelled of mold and time. Cold as the grave.

You sniffed, felt the tip of your nose sting red from the wind. Mud clung to your hem, wet and clumping. Misery hung in the air like frost.

A few of the others passed by, arms full of chopped wood, dragging it to the drier spots under the eaves. Charles was among them, quiet and steady, setting down a bundle of firelogs outside what could barely pass for your cabin. His breath came out in clouds. He glanced up once, caught your eyes. You didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stared.

Dry meat stuck in your teeth. Your mood was worse than the weather.

Charles raised a brow slightly. He knew that look. The one you got when the world had pushed too hard, and you’d had no choice but to push back harder. There was an old saying he once heard—when the Devil can't handle a woman's wrath, he sends winter to try cool her down. Didn’t seem to be working.

He hadn’t seen you since morning. Not really. Just the brush of your hand as you'd mumbled in your sleep, reaching for him in the freezing bed. Cold twisted people in strange ways. Summer brought out your fire. In the heat, you moved like something golden and light. But in the cold? You shed all softness, went sharp around the edges. A hawk in snow.

Charles finished stacking the wood and made his way to the cabin, boots silent in the slush. Inside, the faint smell of rabbit stew clung to the air—something Pearson must've scraped together. You were crouched by the stone hearth, striking the flint like you wanted to hurt it.

The fire wasn’t catching.

He paused in the doorway, watching you for a moment, silent. Maybe this was when you’d snap—fling the flint, curse the cold, curse the land, curse him for not being there sooner. He stepped in anyway. Quiet as snowfall.

Without a word, he reached for the thick fur blanket from the bed and laid it gently over your shoulders.

You froze.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just knelt beside you, reached with long fingers, and struck the flint once—twice—until the fire finally caught and licked slow into life. You didn’t look at him, not yet.

But he stayed there, crouched, hands stretched toward the tiny flame like it was something sacred.

Then, finally, he murmured, voice low and steady like the fire itself:

“Ain’t mad at you. Just ain’t fool enough to argue with a storm.”