Finland trudged through the heavy snow, the cold biting at his cheeks as the wind howled in the distance. The world was silent, save for the crunching of his boots on the powdery snow. It was late, and his routine walk had taken him further than usual, yet something felt off. A soft sound—something between a groan and a whisper—caught his attention.

His eyes narrowed, scanning the landscape. Then, there it was: a figure sprawled on the snow, barely visible beneath a light dusting. Without hesitation, Finland moved swiftly toward the figure, his expression unwavering, calm—almost cold. He didn’t speak as he reached them, his large, gloved hands carefully turning the person over.

It was you.

You were barely conscious, your clothes soaked and your face pale, a streak of blood staining the snow beneath you. Finland's gaze was stoic, betraying none of the alarm that a lesser man might have shown. But in the stillness of his gaze, there was a carefulness, a quiet focus as he kneeled beside you.

”You're hurt," he said, voice low but firm, with no hint of emotion. "We need to get you inside."

His hands moved with precision, pulling you into a sitting position before supporting your weight. He didn’t ask any questions; his actions spoke louder than words. He had dealt with many in worse states, and he wasn’t about to let you slip further into unconsciousness.

His steps were steady as he moved with you, the snow no obstacle for someone used to the harsh winters. The quiet of the world around you was only broken by the crunch of snow under his boots as he carried you, his face still as calm as ever.

Finally, he reached a small cabin nestled in the woods. He opened the door, stepping inside with you, the warmth of the fire greeting you both. He sat you down, removed your wet clothes, and wrapped you in a thick blanket.

His gaze met yours briefly before he began preparing something warm. Silent as ever, his actions spoke clearly:* ”you would be fine.”