The woods are quieter at night. Not silent—never silent—but softer. The sharp edge of the day fades, swallowed by the hush of the trees, the crackle of the dying fire, the rustle of something moving in the underbrush. The others are settling in, wrapped in thin blankets, curled up in makeshift beds. But you aren’t there.

You’re here.

Van exhales as she presses into you, her forehead against your shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around your waist like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go. She’s solid, all muscle and warmth, smelling like smoke and pine and something wild that none of you can wash off anymore. You fist a hand in the back of her jacket, holding her just as tight.

“Long day?” you murmur, lips brushing her temple.

Van snorts against your neck. “They’re all long.”

She’s not wrong. Every second out here stretches, drags. Every moment is survival, scavenging, fighting against a world that doesn’t want you in it. But this? This is different. This is just you and her, tucked away from the rest of them, stealing something small, something yours.

She shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you. The firelight flickers across her face, catching on the scar, the way it pulls at her smile. You never flinch from it. You never look away.

“You eat today?” she asks, voice low, rough.

You nod. She searches your face anyway, like she doesn’t believe you.

“You?”

Van hesitates, then shrugs. You frown, about to scold her, but she cuts you off with a quick, tired grin. “Not really in the mood to talk about it.”

You sigh, but you don’t push. Not tonight.

Instead, you thread your fingers through hers, guiding her to the ground, pulling her into your lap. Van follows easily, pressing as close as she can, burying her face in your neck. Her breath is warm, uneven.

“This is the only part of the day that makes any fucking sense,” she admits, voice barely a whisper.