Their Unlikely Shelter

The soft scratching of graphite on paper was the only sound Wren made. Everything else was the mountain: the sigh of wind through the high pines, the distant chatter of a squirrel, the crisp rustle of dry leaves under the paws of some unseen creature. She sat on a smooth, sun-warmed granite boulder, her back resting against the rough-hewn wall of the cabin. It wasn’t hers, not really. The cabin was a forgotten relic, a single-room shelter left to the mercy of the seasons, its windows boarded up and its door hanging slightly ajar on a single rusty hinge. But to Wren, it was a sanctuary.

Her worn sketchbook lay open on her thighs, held in place by one hand while the other moved with practiced precision. On the page, a Steller’s Jay was taking shape. She’d been watching it for twenty minutes, a flash of brilliant blue and insolent black flitting between the branches of a Douglas fir. She loved their brash confidence, so different from her own quiet nature. Her pencil captured the sharp, intelligent glint in its eye, the slight crest of feathers on its head, the powerful curve of its beak.

This was where she felt most herself. At university, she was a ghost in the lecture halls, a shadow slipping through crowded corridors, her gaze always fixed on the floor. The thought of speaking up in a seminar sent a hot flush of anxiety up her neck. But here, with the scent of pine needles and damp earth filling her lungs, she was an expert observer, a silent participant in a world that made perfect sense. There were no confusing social cues, no pressure to be interesting. There was only the honest, uncomplicated existence of the forest.

Wren paused, lifting her pencil and tilting her head. The jay had flown off, its scolding call echoing as it disappeared deeper into the trees. A faint smile touched her lips. She ran a thumb over the shaded texture of the wing she’d just drawn, the graphite soft and smudgy against her skin. The solitude was a balm. She could sit here for hours, feeling the sun on her face, listening to the mountain’s slow, steady pulse, and feel completely whole.

She tucked a stray strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear and glanced around. The trail that passed by her spot, fifty yards down the slope, was empty, as it usually was on a weekday afternoon. It was popular on weekends, a fact that kept her away. She preferred the quiet. She preferred the illusion that this small pocket of wilderness—the crumbling cabin, the granite boulder, the silent, watchful trees—belonged only to her. It was a fragile, selfish thought, but it was a comforting one. Closing her sketchbook, she laid it carefully beside her and leaned her head back against the weathered wood of the cabin wall, closing her eyes and simply breathing. The peace of it settled deep in her bones, a quiet hum of contentment that she wished she could bottle and carry back down the mountain with her.

Further down the mountain, the sound of labored breathing and the crunch of boots on gravel broke the stillness. Rowan paused, leaning forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. The incline was steeper than he’d anticipated. He watched Freya, a few yards ahead, who had stopped and turned back to him, not even winded. She stood with one hand on her hip, a grin playing on her lips, her blonde ponytail a bright slash of gold against the deep green of the pines.

“Tired already?” she teased, her voice carrying easily in the thin air.

He straightened up, offering a weak smile. “Just admiring the view.” His gaze was fixed solely on her.

Freya’s grin softened. She walked back to him, her movements fluid and sure-footed. She was all vibrant energy, her body toned and strong beneath her hiking clothes. She stepped right into his space, her hands coming up to frame his face, her thumbs stroking the stubble on his jaw. “The view’s better up close,” she murmured, her blue eyes locking with his.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He could feel the solid warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart against his chest. He was always chasing this feeling, this grounding contact with her. He dipped his head and captured her mouth in a kiss that was both hungry and possessive. Her lips parted for him instantly, and his tongue swept inside, tasting the faint, sweet flavor of the energy bar she’d eaten earlier. She met his passion with her own, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, her body pressing closer. He groaned softly into her mouth, his hips pushing instinctively against hers, a familiar heat coiling in his gut. For a moment, there was nothing but the two of them, the raw, physical certainty of their connection.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing a little faster, Freya rested her forehead against his. “See?” she whispered. “Plenty of energy left.”

Rowan’s arms tightened around her, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be doing this with Liam or one of your other super-athlete friends? They’d probably have carried you to the summit by now.” The words were out before he could stop them, a familiar trickle of insecurity poisoning the perfect moment.

Freya pulled back slightly, her expression shifting from passion to a patient, practiced sort of tenderness. It was a look he knew well. “Rowan. We’ve talked about this. I’m not with Liam. I’m with you. I want to be here, with you.” She gave his waist a firm squeeze. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbled, looking away toward the trees. He hated that part of himself, the needy voice that always questioned why someone as bright and confident as Freya would choose someone like him. He felt her hand take his, her fingers lacing through his.

“Come on,” she said, her tone brighter now, pulling him along. “The view from the top is supposed to be worth the climb.”

He let her lead him, his boots scuffing on the trail. The affection between them was a palpable force, a current that always pulled them back together. But beneath it, the tension remained—his quiet fear, her gentle exasperation—a subtle, constant hum just below the surface of their love.

Wren felt it before she saw it. A sudden, unnatural chill swept over the clearing, raising goosebumps on her arms. The wind, which had been a gentle sigh moments before, changed its tune, becoming a low, mournful moan that snaked through the pine needles. She opened her eyes. The quality of the light had shifted, the warm afternoon gold draining away, replaced by a bruised, greenish-grey pallor that flattened the landscape and leeched the color from the trees. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and damp earth. A deep, resonant growl rolled across the sky, not the sharp crack of a distant jet, but a guttural vibration that she felt in her teeth.

Her stomach clenched. Mountain weather was notoriously fickle, but this was different. This was aggressive. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing her sketchbook and pencil, shoving them into her worn canvas backpack. The birds had fallen silent. The entire forest seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

Below her on the trail, Freya stopped mid-sentence, her head tilting upwards. “Did you feel that?” she asked, her bright demeanor dimming with a flicker of unease. The temperature had plummeted, and the wind was now whipping her ponytail across her face.

Rowan looked up at the sky, which was churning with an alarming speed. What had been patches of white cloud just minutes ago had consolidated into a single, monstrous mass of dark grey that was boiling over the mountain’s peak. “Shit,” he breathed, the word snatched away by a gust of wind that tore through the trees, making them groan and sway. “We need to turn back. Now.”

“We’re closer to the summit than the trailhead,” Freya argued, her voice tight with urgency as she scanned their surroundings. “There might be a shelter up ahead. An overhang, a cave…”

Her words were cut off by a sound like the sky tearing in half. A deafening clap of thunder exploded directly overhead, so violent and close that it felt like a physical blow. It was followed almost instantly by a jagged spear of white-hot lightning that illuminated the forest in a stark, terrifying flash, etching the panicked look on Rowan’s face into Freya’s memory.

Then the rain came.

It wasn’t a drizzle or a shower. It was a deluge. Fat, icy drops hit with the force of thrown pebbles, plastering their clothes to their skin in seconds. The trail turned to slick mud beneath their feet. The wind became a physical force, shoving at them, roaring in their ears and stealing their breath.

“Freya!” Rowan yelled, grabbing for her arm, his voice nearly swallowed by the gale.

Wren was already running, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t head for the exposed trail but scrambled up the slight incline toward the one place she knew offered any hope of cover: the cabin. The wind tore at her backpack, trying to pull her off balance. Rain streamed into her eyes, blurring the familiar shape of the pines into a dark, thrashing wall of green. Another crack of thunder, closer this time, vibrated through the soles of her boots. The ground shook.

Freya and Rowan were struggling, slipping in the mud, completely exposed. The romance of the afternoon was gone, replaced by a primal, desperate fight against the elements. The rain was a solid sheet of water now, so thick it was hard to see more than a few feet ahead. It was cold, brutally cold, and Rowan could feel the first shivers wracking his body. He pulled Freya behind a large boulder, the two of them huddling together, but it offered almost no protection from the driving rain and howling wind.

“We can’t stay here!” Freya shouted over the storm’s fury, her face pale, her lips turning blue. “We’ll freeze!”

He scanned the chaos around them, his own fear a cold knot in his stomach. He felt useless, unprepared. He had brought her up here, and now they were trapped in a nightmare. Through the blinding curtain of rain, he saw a flicker of movement higher up the slope—a figure, small and desperate, disappearing behind a wall of what looked like dark wood. A building. Hope, sharp and sudden, pierced through his panic.

“Up there!” Rowan yelled, his voice raw. He pointed a shaking finger toward the dark shape he’d glimpsed. “A cabin!”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Grabbing Freya’s hand, he pulled her from behind the meager shelter of the boulder and began to haul them both up the slick, muddy slope. Every step was a battle. The ground gave way beneath their feet, and the wind fought them like a physical entity, trying to push them back down the mountain. Rain, as cold as ice melt, lashed at their faces and blurred their vision. Rowan kept his eyes locked on the faint, dark rectangle of the cabin, a singular point of focus in the roaring chaos. It was their only chance. Freya stumbled, her boots sliding in the mud, and he tightened his grip, pulling her upright with a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength. He could feel the violent shivering that wracked her body, a tremor that mirrored his own.

Inside, Wren pressed her back against the heavy wooden door, her knuckles white where she gripped the strap of her backpack. She had managed to slam the door shut just as another gust of wind tried to rip it from her grasp, the old wood groaning in protest. The bolt, rusted but thick, had slid home with a solid, reassuring thud. The sudden relative silence was deafening. The roar of the storm was muffled now, reduced to a furious drumming on the tin roof and a low howl that seeped through the cracks in the walls. The air inside was cool and thick with the smell of dust, damp earth, and decaying pine. A single, grimy windowpane on the far wall offered a distorted, grey view of the thrashing world outside. For a dizzying moment, relief washed over her so completely it made her weak. She was safe. She was dry. She was alone.

The thought had barely formed when the door behind her exploded inward.

Wren cried out, stumbling forward as the bolt splintered from its housing. Two figures, more like apparitions of the storm itself, spilled into the small space, bringing a blast of wind and water with them. They were a tangle of limbs and dark, soaked clothing. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, slammed the broken door shut again, leaning his full weight against it to hold it against the gale. The woman collapsed against the doorframe, her head bowed, gasping for breath. Water streamed from her blonde hair and dripped from the hem of her jacket, pooling on the dusty floorboards.

Rowan finally managed to wedge the door shut with a broken piece of furniture he found near the wall. The cabin plunged back into dim, stormy light. He turned, his chest heaving, his face pale and grim. His eyes, dark with a mixture of fear and relief, swept the small room and landed on Wren. She was frozen in the far corner, backed up against the wall as if she could melt into it. He saw a small, slight girl with wide, terrified eyes and dark hair plastered to her cheeks. An intruder in their refuge.

Freya pushed herself upright, her body trembling uncontrollably. She followed Rowan’s gaze and saw Wren huddled there. Despite the cold seeping into her bones, a flicker of warmth, of innate empathy, sparked in her expression. Her lips, tinged with blue, parted. “Oh,” she breathed, the sound barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t— we saw the building—”

Rowan’s voice cut through hers, sharp and practical. “Is anyone else here?” he demanded, his gaze still fixed on Wren, assessing her, assessing the threat. The space, which had felt like a private sanctuary to Wren moments before, was suddenly impossibly small, charged with the frantic energy of strangers and the oppressive, relentless pounding of the storm outside.