Wren shook her head, her voice barely audible over the drumming rain on the roof. “No. It’s just me.”

Rowan gave a curt nod, his jaw tight. He seemed to accept her answer, but his posture remained rigid, his shoulders squared as if ready for a fight. His attention snapped back to Freya, all his protective instincts laser-focused on her. “Come on, get that jacket off. You’re soaked.” His hands were already on the zipper of her rain shell, his movements efficient and proprietary. He pulled the sodden fabric off her shoulders, his fingers firm on her arms.

Freya flinched at the cold air on her wet shirt but allowed him to peel the jacket away. Her eyes, however, stayed on Wren, her expression soft with apology. “We’re so sorry,” she said again, her voice chattering slightly from the cold. “We just saw the light through the window and… we were desperate.” She offered a small, shaky smile. “I’m Freya. This is Rowan.”

Rowan grunted a non-committal sound, his focus entirely on Freya. He tossed her wet jacket into a corner and began rubbing her arms vigorously, trying to chafe some warmth back into her skin. “We need to find something dry. Anything.” He scanned the dusty, cluttered corners of the cabin, dismissing Wren as if she were another piece of forgotten furniture.

Freya reached up and pulled the elastic from her hair. The damp, heavy weight of it fell around her shoulders, a cascade of deep, vibrant red that seemed to glow with its own inner light in the dim cabin. It was a startling slash of color in the otherwise drab, grey space. She shivered again, a full-body tremor this time, but her gaze on Wren remained kind. “Are you alright? We must have scared you half to death.”

“I’m okay,” Wren managed, hugging her own arms. “My name’s Wren.”

“Wren,” Freya repeated, the name a soft puff of air. Her smile became more genuine, a flicker of real warmth that reached her eyes. “Like the bird. That’s beautiful.”

Before Wren could respond, Rowan took Freya by the elbow and guided her firmly toward the center of the room, away from the drafty door. “Let’s get away from the wall,” he commanded softly, his body language creating an unspoken barrier. He maneuvered himself so that he was positioned slightly between Freya and Wren, a subtle but clear act of ownership. He began stripping off his own soaked jacket, his movements sharp and agitated. The small space felt charged, thick with the smell of wet clothes, old wood, and the unspoken tension radiating from him. He was a dark, brooding presence, his concern for Freya so absolute that it manifested as a palpable hostility toward anything outside of her.

Freya glanced at him, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features before she smoothed it away, turning her attention back to Wren. But the line had been drawn. Rowan’s possessiveness was a physical thing in the cramped room, a silent declaration that Freya was his to protect, his to manage, and Wren was an unwelcome complication in their survival. The air crackled with it, a current as electric and unpredictable as the storm raging just outside the thin wooden walls.

Freya’s gaze drifted from Rowan’s grim survey of the room to where Wren was still pressed into the corner. Her eyes landed on a large, flat portfolio case tucked beside Wren’s backpack. “Are you an artist?” she asked, her voice a warm thread in the cold, tense air.

Rowan made a low, impatient sound in his throat, but Freya ignored him completely. Her focus was entirely on Wren, her expression one of genuine curiosity that seemed to momentarily override their grim circumstances.

Wren hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. “I just… sketch a little.”

“Can I see?” Freya’s voice was soft, coaxing. She took a step closer, leaving Rowan’s orbit. The distance was only a few feet, but it felt like a deliberate choice.

Slowly, feeling the weight of Rowan’s disapproving stare, Wren knelt and unzipped the portfolio. She laid it open on top of a dusty wooden crate. The first page she revealed was a charcoal study of a Carolina wren, its tiny body puffed against the cold, its head cocked with an almost impossible amount of personality. Each feather was rendered with painstaking precision.

“Wow,” Freya breathed, crouching down beside her. The damp wool of her sweater brushed against Wren’s arm. “Wren, these are… they’re incredible.” She carefully turned the page. A northern cardinal, a flash of brilliant red even in monochrome. Then a blue jay, its crest raised in arrogant display. “You don’t just sketch them, you capture them. It feels like I can hear them chirping.”

A faint warmth spread through Wren’s chest, chasing away some of the chill. “I try to get the details right,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the drawings. “The way they hold their heads, the texture of their feathers.”

“You do more than that,” Freya insisted, her voice full of an admiration that felt like a physical touch. “Where do you find them all? Are these all from around here?”

For the first time since the storm hit, Wren felt a piece of herself return. The shyness receded, replaced by a quiet passion. “Most of them. The campus has a surprising number of species if you know where to look. And up here… up here you can find red-tailed hawks.”

As they spoke, a small, intimate bubble formed around them, shutting out the howl of the wind and the oppressive damp. Freya listened intently, asking questions that showed she was actually hearing the answers, her green eyes alight with interest. Wren found herself talking more than she had all week, explaining the patience it took, the quiet joy of watching a creature in its natural state, forgetting for a moment the hulking, silent figure radiating disapproval behind them.

“Freya.” Rowan’s voice was sharp, cutting through their conversation. “We need to find something to block that draft. And see if any of this wood is dry.” He kicked at a pile of old lumber near the crumbling stone fireplace, sending up a cloud of dust.

Freya didn’t even look up. “In a minute,” she said, her attention fixed on a sketch of a hummingbird frozen in mid-flight. “How did you even manage to draw this? They move so fast.”

Rowan walked over, his heavy boots loud on the floorboards. He stopped directly behind Freya, looming over both of them and casting a dark shadow across the delicate drawings. “It’s getting colder,” he stated, his voice low and tight with irritation. “This isn’t the time for arts and crafts.”

The condescension in his tone was impossible to miss. The warm bubble popped. Wren flinched, her hands instinctively moving to close the portfolio, to hide her work away from his dismissive gaze.

Freya’s shoulders stiffened. She finally turned her head, looking up at him with a glare that was as cold as the wind outside. “Rowan. Stop it.”

“I’m just being practical,” he insisted, though his eyes were locked on Wren, a clear, territorial warning in their depths. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

The unspoken accusation hung in the air: And you are distracting her from me. The easy connection between the two women was suddenly fraught, strained by his possessive anger. Wren felt trapped between his cold fury and Freya’s quiet, simmering defiance, the tiny cabin suddenly feeling more like a cage than a shelter.

“It means being a decent human being,” Freya retorted, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She rose from her crouch in a smooth, angry motion, placing herself between Rowan and Wren’s portfolio. “Her name is Wren. And her art is beautiful.”

Rowan’s jaw worked, a muscle flexing in his cheek. He refused to look at Wren, his gaze locked on Freya. “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said we have bigger problems. Or did you not notice the fucking hurricane happening outside?” He gestured vaguely at the window, where rain lashed against the dirty glass. “Priorities, Freya.”

He turned away from them abruptly, his dismissal a physical blow. He began to stalk the small perimeter of the room, testing the floorboards with his boots, pushing at the walls. He was mapping the space, claiming it. “This place is a wreck. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get pneumonia.” He grabbed a splintered plank from the pile of wood he’d kicked earlier and slammed it against the wall near the doorframe. The sound echoed in the small space, making Wren jump. “See? Rotted. Useless.”

He moved with a restless, aggressive energy that consumed all the oxygen in the room. He was bigger than Wren had first realized, broad-shouldered and solid, and his agitated movements made the cabin feel impossibly small, like a cage he was rattling. He found an old, rusted metal bucket and shoved it under a spot where water was dripping steadily from the ceiling, the plink… plink… plink of the water adding a maddening rhythm to the tension.

“Good thing I was with you,” he said, not looking at either of them but directing the comment at Freya. “You’d have probably just stood out there until you froze.”

Freya crossed her arms over her chest, her damp sweater clinging to her skin, outlining the hard points of her nipples against the fabric. The cold was a real concern, but Rowan’s tone made her bristle. “I was managing just fine.”

“Right,” he scoffed, the sound dripping with condescension. He started examining the fireplace, pulling out charred logs and tossing them aside with sharp, angry movements. “Just like you were managing when you forgot to check the forecast before we left.”

The jab was personal, and it landed. A flush of color crept up Freya’s neck, a mixture of embarrassment and fury. “It wasn’t supposed to turn this fast.”

“But it did,” Rowan shot back, finally turning to face her. His expression was hard. “And now we’re stuck in a shack with a stranger because we weren’t prepared. Because you weren’t prepared. So let me handle this.”

His words were meant for Freya, but his eyes flickered to Wren for a fraction of a second, a look of pure annoyance, as if her very presence was the ultimate proof of Freya’s incompetence. He was framing himself as the hero, the protector, forced to clean up a mess Freya had made. Wren felt herself shrink, wanting to slide through the floorboards and disappear. She slowly, quietly, began to close her portfolio, the beautiful, vibrant birds vanishing under the cover. She was an inconvenience, a piece of the problem he had to solve. The warmth she’d felt sharing her work with Freya curdled into a cold knot of shame in her stomach. She was an intruder in their drama, a temporary obstacle in the path of his suffocating concern. The air was thick with it, a current as electric and unpredictable as the storm raging just outside the thin wooden walls.

Freya’s silence was more damning than any shout. She stared at Rowan for a long, cold moment, her green eyes glittering with a fury that was sharp enough to cut. Then, without a word, she turned her back on him completely. She knelt on the dusty floorboards beside Wren, the movement a deliberate dismissal of his authority.

“I’m sorry,” Freya said, her voice low and soft, meant only for Wren. “He gets like this.” She reached out and gently placed her hand over Wren’s on the portfolio cover. Her fingers were cold, but the pressure was firm, reassuring. “Please, can I see the rest? I’d really like to.”

Wren’s throat was tight. She looked from Freya’s earnest, apologetic face to Rowan’s rigid back. He was still by the fireplace, his shoulders set like stone. He was ignoring them, but the force of his anger was a physical presence in the room. Swallowing hard, Wren gave a small nod and opened the case again.

The storm howled, pressing in on the tiny cabin, but for the next hour, Freya created a pocket of calm. She and Wren huddled over the drawings, their heads close together. The scent of rain and damp earth clung to Freya’s red hair. Wren could feel the warmth radiating from Freya’s body, a stark contrast to the creeping chill of the room. They spoke in hushed tones, sharing the space of the portfolio. Freya would point to a detail—the delicate webbing of a feather, the intelligent glint in a bird’s eye—and Wren would explain her process, her voice gaining confidence with every appreciative sound Freya made.

Rowan did not stay still. He moved with a frustrated, contained violence, wedging a piece of wood into the rattling window frame, clearing a space on the floor with needlessly loud scrapes of his boots. Every noise was an interruption, a demand for attention they refused to give him. He found two threadbare, musty-smelling blankets in a dilapidated chest and tossed one roughly in Freya’s direction. It landed half on her, half on the portfolio.

Freya didn’t flinch. She simply picked it up, shook out a cloud of dust, and unfolded it. Instead of wrapping it around herself, she draped it over Wren’s shoulders first, her fingers brushing the nape of Wren’s neck. The touch was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt of heat straight down Wren’s spine. Then Freya settled beside her, pulling the other end of the thin wool around her own shoulders, tucking them together under the single covering. Their thighs pressed together, a line of solid warmth from hip to knee.

Rowan watched them, his face a mask of thunder. He sat down heavily across from them, wrapping the second blanket around himself, creating a clear and hostile opposition. The air grew thick with unspoken resentments. The only sounds were the drumming rain, the dripping bucket, and the ragged sound of Rowan’s breathing.

As the hours passed and the last of the daylight failed, the cold deepened, seeping through the walls. Shivers started to rack Wren’s body, a deep, bone-aching chill. Freya felt it and shifted closer, her arm wrapping around Wren’s back, pulling her tighter against her side.

“You’re freezing,” Freya murmured, her breath warm against Wren’s ear.

Wren could only nod, her teeth chattering. She was intensely aware of Freya’s body against hers—the firm curve of her breast pressing into her arm, the solidness of her thigh. It was an intimacy born of necessity, but it felt like something more. It felt like a choice. A defiant one.

Across the small, dark space, Rowan’s stare was a physical weight. He could see the way Freya was holding Wren, the protective curve of her body. He could see the way Wren leaned into the embrace, seeking the warmth Freya offered. A muscle in his jaw jumped, the only sign of the fury churning inside him. A clear line had been drawn in the dim, suffocating space. On one side was Rowan, a solitary island of possessive anger. On the other were Freya and Wren, huddled together, a fragile, budding alliance against the storm both outside and in. The night stretched before them, long and fraught with a tension that promised a breaking point was inevitable.