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.

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.

The first thing Wren became aware of was the silence. The punishing roar of the wind and the percussive drumming of rain had ceased, replaced by a profound quiet broken only by the steady, rhythmic plink… plink… of water dripping into the bucket. A pale, watery light filtered through the grimy window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still, cold air. The storm had passed.

A deep, bone-aching chill had settled into her marrow. She was stiff from sleeping on the hard floorboards, her muscles protesting as she shifted. The movement reminded her that she wasn’t alone under the thin, musty blanket. Freya was still pressed against her, a line of warmth along Wren’s side. In sleep, Freya had shifted even closer, one arm thrown loosely over Wren’s waist, her face turned towards Wren’s shoulder. The scent of her—damp earth, sweat, and something uniquely, faintly floral—filled Wren’s senses. Her red hair, now mostly dry, was a chaotic tumble against the dusty floor, catching the morning light like threads of fire.

Wren’s heart gave a painful thump against her ribs. She lay perfectly still, caught between the desire to pull away from the intensely intimate position and the selfish need for Freya’s body heat. Across the small room, Rowan was a rigid silhouette against the window. He was already awake, sitting upright with his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, staring at them. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but the sheer force of his stillness felt like an accusation. Wren had the distinct feeling he hadn't slept at all, that he had spent the entire night watching them, his anger simmering in the dark.

Freya stirred, a soft sound in her throat, and her arm tightened around Wren for a moment before she pulled back, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked, her green eyes hazy with sleep, and for a second, she looked directly at Wren, a soft, unguarded expression on her face. Then awareness dawned, and she sat up, pushing her tangled hair from her face.

“Morning,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. She looked at Wren, who was shivering visibly now that their shared warmth was broken. A frown creased Freya’s brow. “God, you’re still frozen.”

She untangled herself from the blanket and got to her feet, stretching with a groan, her damp sweater riding up to expose a pale strip of her stomach. Her own clothes were clearly still clammy, clinging to her skin. She shivered herself, rubbing her arms briskly before turning to her pack, which she’d propped against the wall. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out a thick, dark green jacket. It looked warm, insulated, and most importantly, perfectly dry.

Wren started to protest, to say she was fine, but the words died in her throat as Freya walked back over to her. She knelt, holding the jacket out.

“Here,” Freya said, her voice soft but firm. “Put this on. You’re colder than I am.” The offer was simple, a straightforward act of kindness. Her eyes were clear and direct, holding none of the tension that radiated from Rowan. It was a gesture that pointedly excluded him, creating a private space between the two of them in the cold morning light.

Before Wren could even reach for it, Rowan’s voice cut through the quiet.

“That’s a great idea, Freya.” The words were layered with a thick, corrosive sarcasm. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his voice was sharp enough to be a physical blow. “Give away the only dry thing we have left. What will you wear when you start shivering in five minutes?” He finally stood, letting his own blanket fall to the floor. “Or were you just planning on cuddling with her all the way down the mountain to stay warm?”

The air went thin and sharp. Freya’s face, which had been soft with sleep and concern, hardened into a mask of cold fury. She didn’t look at Rowan. Her entire focus remained on Wren, a deliberate, pointed exclusion. She pushed the jacket firmly into Wren’s hands.

“Put it on, Wren,” she said, her voice low and tight, laced with an authority that defied interruption.

Wren’s fingers felt clumsy and numb. She stared down at the dark green fabric in her lap, a peace offering that had just become the casus belli. Before she could move, Rowan crossed the small room in two long, aggressive strides, his boots loud on the dusty floorboards. His shadow fell over them, a sudden, chilling eclipse.

He didn't speak. He simply reached down and grabbed Freya’s arm, his fingers digging into her bicep with bruising force. “Freya.”

With a single, rough motion, he hauled her to her feet and pulled her away from Wren, dragging her toward the far corner of the cabin by the door. The act was brutally proprietary, a physical claiming. Freya stumbled, her feet catching on the uneven floor before she found her balance. She immediately tried to wrench her arm from his grasp, her body twisting against his hold.

“Let go of me, Rowan,” she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper that cut through the silence. They were only a few feet away, their backs mostly to Wren, but the intensity of their confrontation was a palpable force that filled the entire cabin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rowan’s voice was just as low, a harsh rasp right next to her ear. Wren could see the corded muscles in his neck, the white-knuckled grip he had on Freya’s arm. “You spent the entire night curled up with her like she was some lost fucking puppy, and now you’re giving away your jacket? Are you trying to get sick?”

“She was cold, you asshole,” Freya shot back, her own voice trembling with a rage she was struggling to contain. She yanked her arm again, a futile, angry gesture. “It’s called empathy. It’s called not being a complete bastard to a stranger who’s stuck in the same shitty situation we are.”

“I’m not being a bastard, I’m being realistic,” he countered, pulling her a half-step closer, forcing her to look at him. “We don’t know anything about her. And you’re acting like she’s your new best friend, right in front of me. How do you think that makes me feel? It’s disrespectful, Freya.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Freya’s lips. “Disrespectful? You want to talk about disrespect? What about the way you’ve been glaring at her since the second we walked in? The way you treated her like she was a piece of dirt on your shoe? You’ve been hovering over me, radiating so much jealousy I can barely breathe. That’s what’s disrespectful.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched so hard Wren could see the muscle jump from across the room. His grip on Freya’s arm visibly tightened, and she flinched, a small, sharp intake of breath. “This isn’t jealousy. This is me looking out for you, because you’re too damn trusting. You’d invite a wolf in for dinner if it wagged its tail the right way.”

Each word was a targeted blow, and Wren felt them land as if they were aimed at her. Her. The stranger. The wolf. A hot, sick wave of shame washed over her. She was the problem. She was the source of this ugly, raw conflict. She instinctively pulled the green jacket to her chest, the soft nylon a flimsy shield against the acid in Rowan’s voice. She wanted to shrink, to become invisible, to melt into the floorboards and disappear. She kept her head bowed, staring at her own worn boots, praying they would forget she was even there. But she couldn't escape the truth. This was happening because of her.

“Maybe I would,” Freya’s voice was suddenly lethal, all the trembling gone, replaced by something cold and hard as stone. “Maybe I prefer the company of wolves to whatever the hell this is.”

With a violent twist, she finally tore her arm from his grasp. The motion was so abrupt it sent her stumbling back a step, and Rowan’s hand was left hanging in the air between them, his fingers still curled from the force of his grip. The sound of skin sliding free, sharp and final, echoed in the cramped space. They stared at each other across the new, empty distance, and the rift between them was no longer just a feeling; it was a physical chasm carved into the cabin’s dusty air.

“This is not protection, Rowan,” Freya said, her voice low and seething. She rubbed her bicep where his fingers had dug in, a self-soothing gesture that was also an accusation. “This is control. This is you being so terrified that I might have a single thought or feeling that doesn’t revolve around you that you have to leash me like a dog. You can’t stand it when I’m kind to someone, because in your mind, my kindness is a finite resource, and you’re afraid there won’t be enough left over for your fragile ego.”

Every word was precise, a scalpel slicing away at the justifications Rowan had built around himself. Wren could see the impact in the way his face paled, the way his jaw worked silently. He looked from Freya’s furious expression to Wren, who was still huddled on the floor, and a look of pure, unadulterated loathing flashed in his eyes.

“My ego?” he finally spat, taking a step toward Freya, invading the space she had just claimed. “This isn’t about my ego. This is about you. You give too much of yourself away, Freya. To everyone. You don’t have boundaries. I’m the only one who ever sets them for you.”

“They aren’t boundaries, they’re bars!” Freya’s voice rose, cracking with the force of her anger. She jabbed a finger toward him, her whole body trembling. “I am not your property. My kindness is not a betrayal of you. My talking to another human being is not an invitation for you to act like a possessive monster. She”—Freya gestured vaguely toward Wren without looking, her focus entirely on Rowan—“is a person who was caught in a storm, just like us. That’s all. But you can’t see a person. You can only see a threat. Because everything is a threat to you.”

The truth of her words hung between them, stark and ugly. Wren felt her own breath catch in her throat. Freya wasn’t just defending her actions; she was defending her very nature against his. She was defending her right to be the person she was, a person Rowan was actively trying to suffocate.

Rowan’s face twisted, his anger curdling into something that looked like desperation. “Because I love you, you idiot! Because I don’t want to lose you!”

“You’re going to lose me like this!” Freya shouted, her voice finally breaking free of its hushed restraint, echoing off the thin wooden walls. The sound was shocking in the morning quiet. “This behavior, right here. This is what will make me walk away. Not her. Not some stranger on a mountain. You. Your jealousy. Your need to own every part of me. I can’t live like that. I won’t.”

The finality in her voice was absolute. She didn’t just say the words; she embodied them. Her stance was defiant, her chin high, her green eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to burn away any trace of the soft woman who had shared her blanket just hours before. Rowan stared at her, his chest heaving, his own anger seemingly extinguished by the sheer, unwavering force of hers. He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing left to say. The argument had reached its peak and collapsed, leaving behind a silence that was heavier and more suffocating than the argument itself. They stood frozen in their corner, two separate, unmoving figures locked in a battle that had no winner, only casualties. The air was thick with the wreckage.

Wren’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. The silence that followed Freya’s ultimatum was worse than the shouting. It was a dead, heavy thing that settled over the small cabin, pressing down on Wren until she felt like she couldn't draw a full breath. She was the epicenter of this earthquake, the stray rock that had triggered an avalanche. Every accusation, every defense, every raw, painful word had been about her, or because of her. She was a threat. A wolf. A stranger who had stumbled into a fragile, volatile ecosystem and torn it apart just by existing.

The shame was a physical sensation, a hot, creeping sickness that started in her stomach and spread through her veins. She couldn't stay. She couldn't sit here for another second, a living monument to their dysfunction. The urge to flee was primal, a desperate, screaming need to remove herself from their sight, to erase the damage she had caused.

Slowly, carefully, she began to move. Her muscles felt stiff and clumsy, her movements amplified in the crushing quiet. Freya and Rowan were still locked in their standoff near the door, oblivious to her, consumed by the toxic fallout of their own war. Wren kept her head down, her eyes fixed on her task. She folded the rough wool blanket she had slept under, placing it neatly back on the cot. Her hands shook, but she forced them to be steady.

She reached for her sketchbook, her fingers tracing the worn cover for a moment before she slipped it into her backpack. The charcoal pencils followed, rattling softly in their tin case. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence, and she froze, her breath held tight in her chest. But neither of them moved. They hadn’t noticed. They were on their own island of misery, and she was just a ghost in the periphery.

Her gaze fell on the dark green jacket lying next to her. Freya’s jacket. The catalyst. The kind offering that had become a weapon. Taking it felt like taking a side, like accepting a trophy from a battle she never wanted to witness. Leaving it felt like a rejection of Freya’s kindness, the only warmth she’d been shown in this whole ordeal. But she couldn't take it. It was too heavy, soaked not with rain but with the weight of their conflict. With deliberate care, she picked it up, folded it into a neat square, and placed it on the foot of the cot, a silent message she hoped Freya would understand. I’m sorry. I can’t.

With her backpack now settled on her shoulders, she pushed herself to her feet. The floorboards creaked under her weight, a low groan of protest. This time, Rowan’s head snapped toward her. His eyes, dark and haunted, fixed on her for a moment. There was no anger left in them, only a hollowed-out exhaustion. He looked right through her, his gaze vacant, before it drifted back to Freya. He hadn’t really seen her at all.

Freya remained facing him, her back to Wren, her posture rigid with a pain that went deeper than anger. Wren took one last look at the fiery red hair, the proud, defiant set of her shoulders, and a pang of regret shot through her. She wanted to say something—thank you, I’m sorry, anything—but the words were lodged in her throat, choked by the suffocating tension. Speaking would only anchor her here, pull her back into their orbit.

She slipped past them, a shadow moving toward the light. The cabin door was slightly ajar, and she slid through the opening without making a sound. The morning air hit her like a physical release. It was cool and clean, smelling of damp earth and pine, washing away the stale, charged atmosphere of the cabin. The sun was breaking through the last of the storm clouds, casting long, fractured rays of light across the mountainside.

She didn't look back. She couldn't. She set her feet on the muddy trail and began the descent, her pace quick and determined. Each step was a conscious effort to put distance between herself and the fractured dawn she was leaving behind. The argument replayed in her mind—Rowan’s possessiveness, Freya’s fury—a vicious, looping soundtrack to her escape. She was alone again, just as she had been when she’d hiked up the mountain yesterday. But this time, the solitude didn’t feel like peace. It felt like flight.