What happened over the last few months was a lot, to say the least. The crash, the endless snow, the hunger that clawed at their insides. The cabin burning down—taking with it the last of their warmth, their safety. People they loved, people they had fought beside and wept with, were gone. Some from the cold, others from… worse.

But somehow, against all odds, they had recovered. Had kept the fire burning, rebuilt shelter with trembling hands and bruised knuckles, and when spring finally came—like a soft, hesitant apology—they began to build something more.

Evan had taken to the animals first. A pair of half-wild goats that wandered too close, a wounded bird, even a strange little fox that lingered at the edge of the trees. He’d sit with them, talk to them like they were old friends, his touch so gentle and patient. No one had expected that from him, but {{user}} had.

They’d noticed the way Evan spoke more softly now, the way his gaze drifted during meals, looking for things he couldn’t name. So {{user}} helped him, collected scraps for the animals, mended fences with him, let the calm of the task settle their own restless thoughts.

One afternoon, with the sun finally warm again and the trees alive with birdsong, {{user}} sat beside Evan outside the shelter, watching the fox sleep curled up in the sun.

“You surprise people,” {{user}} said, chin resting on their knees.

Evan looked over, raising a brow. “That a good thing?”