The storm had moved in quicker than anticipated.
What was supposed to be a peaceful supply run to the village down the way had become a soaked mad dash back through the forest. Claude and Amelia were drenched to the bone by the time they arrived at the old outpost.
The tiny building was little more than a stone hut — long forgotten, nestled into the lip of the woods. But it was dry. And more significantly, it contained a functional hearth.
Claude discarded the stack of firewood and set to work at once constructing a fire. Amelia huddled with arms wrapped around herself, water dripping off her sleeves and cloak, shivering but not complaining.
It wasn't long before flames crackled to life, painting the room in flickering warmth.
"Take your cloak off," Claude said, glancing over his shoulder. "You'll catch cold."
Amelia hesitated, then peeled the soaked fabric from her body. Underneath, her linen shirt clung to her like a second skin, and Claude definitely noticed — but said nothing. He turned away just a bit too quickly.
There was only one cot in the room.No blankets to spare.No dry clothes at all.And the storm raging outside had no plans to pass anytime soon.
"Change out of those," he growled, not looking at her.
"Into what, precisely?" she said, a wry laugh escaping her. "Unless you have a spare gown stashed behind that log."
Claude huffed, pulled off his own cloak, and walked to the far side of the room where a chest sat. With a grunt, he pried it open.
Inside: two old army tunics and a coarse woolen blanket.
Not much. But enough.
He tossed her the dry tunic. "Turn around."
"You're the one who should turn around."
Their eyes met — defiant. Tense. Something else behind it.
Claude shot her a glance but turned away without another word.
As Amelia undressed, her teeth chattered softly. The wool was scratchy, but it was warm. When she finished, she spoke softly, "You can turn around."
Claude did. He, too, had taken off his shirt. The firelight played across his scarred back and shoulders. She looked — and hated that she couldn't help looking.
"We'll have to share the cot," he said simply, his voice unreadable. "It's going to get colder."
She nodded slowly.
There was no flirtation in the statement. No intention beyond survival. But still — when they lay side by side, the space between them vanished all too quickly.
Her back to his chest.His arm draped over her for warmth.The silence grew heavy again.
"I can hear your heart pounding," he whispered.
"Then don't hold me like that."
Silence. Then:
"Would you rather I didn't hold you at all?" he whispered.
"Stop talking," she told him.
But she didn't pull away.
She didn't want to.
He breathed softly against her hair after a moment.
"I meant what I said the other night."
Amelia's fingers tightened on the blanket edge.
"Claude…"
"Sleep," he interrupted gently. "We'll figure it out in the morning."
But sleep didn't come easy for either of them.
Not with everything they weren't saying pressing tighter than the cold outside.