The fire’s burning low, and the smoke hangs stubbornly in the air, coating your tongue with ash every time you breathe in. You’re crouched by it anyway, using the heat to thaw your fingers while you work the knife through what’s left of the rabbit. The air is sharp, cold enough to bite through your clothes, and your knees ache from kneeling on the hard ground.

Behind you, there’s the soft crunch of boots in snow. You don’t have to turn to know it’s Nat—her steps are heavier than anyone else’s, impatient in a way that always gives her away.

She stops beside you and drops a small bundle on the ground. “Found some berries. Don’t get too excited—they’re half-frozen.” Her breath ghosts white in the air. She looks at you for a beat too long, like she’s trying to check if you’re still in one piece, before crouching down to help.

You slide the rabbit toward her, your hands aching from the cold. “You can’t just eat random berries out here.”

Nat smirks. “And yet, here I am, not dead. Guess that makes me a wilderness expert now.” She takes the knife from you without asking, her gloved fingers brushing yours. The contact is brief, but in this cold, it feels warmer than the fire.

You watch her work—quick, sure movements, like she’s been doing this her whole life. She probably has, in some way. “You’ve got blood on your cheek,” you say.

“Hot,” she replies flatly, but there’s a flicker of a smile as she wipes it with the back of her hand, smearing it instead of cleaning it.

The fire pops, sending sparks upward, and Nat leans in just enough to nudge your shoulder with hers. “You okay today?” she asks, like it’s just casual conversation, not the lifeline it really is out here.