Dain didn’t like watch duty.

It was cold, and late, and his eyes were already burning from wind and fatigue after the day's long flight. His fingers had gone stiff more than an hour ago, and the bastard of a mountain wind didn’t care that he was trying to keep them moving—trying to keep himself awake—by sharpening a dagger that didn’t really need it.

But someone had to keep lookout.

And gods forbid he ask anyone for help these days.

So he stood near the edge of the ridge, where a jagged boulder overlooked their makeshift camp below. Silent, shadowed outlines of tents, half-glowing embers of the dying fire. And then—

Her.

He saw her the moment she stepped out from between the trees, clutching her arms around herself like the cold was something she could physically fight off. That viper second-year with the sharp tongue and colder eyes. The one who never hesitated to tell him what a piece of shit he was since the split, since Liam’s death.

As if he didn’t already carry the weight of it every time he saw the scars on everyone else. As if he didn’t wake up from nightmares, blaming himself for everything.

She’d offered her blanket to a first-year earlier—he’d seen it. Saw her give it up without hesitation, saw the kid's face twist with relief. Noble little martyr. But now she had nothing but her flight leathers and a too-thin undershirt beneath. No tent, either—hers had a rip straight down the side.

And when Sloane pointed toward his tent—Dain’s tent—she didn't argue.

Just nodded once, like it was an order she hated taking, and walked past the fire, past him, without so much as a glance in his direction.

But the glare she had given him earlier when he offered to switch posts still stung. Like she’d rather sleep outside in the snow than owe him a favor.

He stayed on watch another two hours, not really seeing the mountains anymore. Just the echo of that glare. The soft tremble of her fingers around her elbows. The scowl written across her whole posture, even while she did something decent.

And then he switched shifts, boots crunching through the snow as he made his way toward his tent. The wind had picked up. The kind that cut through bone.

The flap was barely latched.

Inside, it was colder than he'd expected. The body curled on the far side barely made a dent in the air. She had taken his blanket. She was lying on the ground, curled tight, hair a mess, face flushed with cold.

And she was snoring.

Loudly.

He blinked. Rubbed at his face with a gloved hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered to no one.

She looked small, in the way people do when they’re vulnerable. Fragile. Not that she’d ever admit to it.

But she’d given up warmth for someone else, and now here she was, sprawled in the space he had to call a bed for the night—hogging the blanket like it owed her something.

He knelt, easing into the last sliver of space left for him.

And then he poked her.

She flinched, blinking awake, a snarl already curling her lips before her eyes even focused.

“Wake up,” he said dryly. “You're drooling on my things.”

“I am not.” Her voice was hoarse with sleep. “Get out.”

He arched a brow. “My tent.”

“I’m half-asleep and cold, don’t test me.”

He sighed, tugging the blanket toward himself and ignoring her protesting pull in return. “I’ll be asleep in two minutes. You can glare at me tomorrow.”

She said something under her breath that sounded vaguely like asshole, but didn’t argue again.

He lay still for a few minutes, eyes on the dark ceiling, breath fogging faintly in the freezing air. Even under the blanket, the cold bit through him like a blade.

With a groan, he rolled onto his side to face her and muttered, “I’m cold. You’re cold. Let’s just share body heat and pretend we hate it.”

He didn’t trust her. She didn’t trust him. And neither of them wanted to be here.

But the cold didn’t care. And at least for tonight, he was too tired to fight.