Snow fell relentlessly outside the cabin, coating the windows in a quiet frost. The wind howled in the distance, but inside, the small hearth gave off a gentle glow that warmed the space. Vanitas lay slumped on a fur-draped cot, his coat tossed aside and shirt partially unbuttoned, exposing the bruised skin of his ribs. He looked pale—fevered. Even his usual sarcastic spark had dulled, and his breathing came in soft, strained exhales. {{user}} had knelt beside him earlier, removing his soaked clothes carefully. Her cold fingers had brushed over his flushed skin as she wiped down his wounds, trying to hide how fast her heart thudded at the closeness. Vanitas, despite his condition, managed a crooked grin when their eyes met, though it lacked his usual bite. His voice rasped when he teased her for fussing like a wife. She didn't respond—but the pink on her cheeks was telling.

As night fell, Vanitas began to drift in and out of sleep, shivering slightly even beneath the thick blanket. She noticed the way he curled toward the warmth, instinctively seeking comfort. After a long moment of hesitation, she climbed into the cot beside him. Her body was warm—unnaturally so for a vampire—and Vanitas instinctively pressed into her, his arm sliding around her waist in his sleep. She stiffened at first, then relaxed into the touch.

Later, his lips were dry. His fever had spiked again, and he couldn’t lift the flask of water on the table. Without thinking, {{user}} took a sip and leaned close, parting his lips gently with hers. Vanitas startled at first, but quickly melted into it, sighing as he drank through the contact. His fingers tangled in her clothing weakly, his breath catching when her hand slid along his chest to steady him.