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The woods are quiet tonight, suffocatingly so. No howls, no birds, not even the faint rustling of branches. The silence presses down on you as heavily as the snow that has steadily buried the ground for weeks. The rifle strapped across your back feels heavier than it should, useless in your hands when you’ve once again returned from a hunt with nothing to show for it. You crest the final rise, the cabin just within sight, when a shape catches your eye—a splash of pale blue stark against the snow’s endless white.
Your breath catches in your throat. At first, you think it’s your imagination, exhaustion painting shadows where there are none. But then you see it again—a figure lying in the snow, unmoving.
“Jackie?”
Her name leaves your lips before you even recognize her form. You’re moving before you have time to think, stumbling down the hill toward her. The rifle clatters to the ground as you drop to your knees beside her, hands trembling. She looks like she belongs to the snow. Her skin is pale, her lips tinged an alarming blue, her clothes dusted with frost. Her eyes are closed, lashes rimmed with tiny crystals of ice. For a moment, you think you’re too late—that her body is just a frozen silhouette of who she was.
But then you see it: the faintest rise and fall of her chest. “Jackie,” you whisper, shaking her gently. “Jackie, can you hear me?”
Her head rolls slightly, her eyelids fluttering. That tiny movement lights a fire under you. “Okay, okay,” you mutter, your breath misting in the freezing air. “I’ve got you.” You scoop her up, her body terrifyingly light in your arms, and begin the desperate trek to the cabin. The snow drags at your legs, but you push through, teeth gritted. When you reach the cabin, you hesitate at the door. If the others see her like this…
No. You can’t risk it. You can already imagine the arguments, the cold indifference from some of them, the judgment from others. Jackie doesn’t need that. She needs you. You slip inside as quietly as you can, your breath catching when the warmth of the fire hits your frozen skin. The others are scattered in the main room, some muttering, some staring blankly at the flames. No one looks your way.
Good.
You move quickly, your footsteps soft on the creaking wood as you make your way to the ladder leading to the attic. Once there, you hoist Jackie up, gritting your teeth at the strain, and lay her down on the old floor cot in the corner.
“I’ll be right back,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
She doesn’t respond, her body limp, but you can’t let that stop you. You descend the ladder, your heart hammering in your chest, and start grabbing supplies: blankets, a lantern, anything that might help. You move swiftly but carefully, avoiding the eyes of the others as much as possible. By the time you return to the attic, your arms are full. You light the lantern and set it beside the ‘nest’ on the ground, its warm glow casting shadows across Jackie’s pale face. Her breathing is shallow, her body eerily still.
You don’t waste a second.
You strip off your outer layers, ignoring the way the cold bites into your skin, and drape the five, six, however many blankets over Jackie’s body. They swallow her whole, but even that doesn’t feel like enough. You slip beneath the layers, pulling her into your lap, her icy cheek pressing against your chest.
“Come on, Jackie,” you whisper, rubbing slow circles into her back. “Stay with me.”
Her head lolls against your shoulder, her hair damp with melted snow. She doesn’t say a word, but you feel the faintest shiver ripple through her body. It’s enough to give you hope. Mere minutes turn into half an hour as you hold her, the blankets trapping what little heat your body can offer. Your arms ache, your fingers are numb, but you don’t care. You refuse to let her go.
Eventually, a soft sound breaks the silence. A weak, almost inaudible groan. Your breath catches. “Jackie?”
A soft, pained whimper escapes her lips, barely audible over the faint creak of the attic boards beneath you. It’s not a word, just a sound, raw and broken. Her head shifts weakly against your chest, her brows furrowing as though she’s trying to piece together where she is, why she’s here. Who’s holding her. “I…” you murmur, your voice trembling with both relief and dread. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes crack open, unfocused and hazy in the dim light of the lantern. She blinks sluggishly, her lashes still speckled with melting frost, and her lips part as if to speak, but nothing coherent comes out. Just another soft noise—confusion, pain, exhaustion—all tangled together.
“Shh, don’t try to talk,” you say gently, brushing your hand over her damp hair. It clings to her forehead, her skin frighteningly cold against your fingertips. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more—her or yourself.
Her body shivers again, body trying to awaken, more violently this time, and you tighten your hold on her, pulling the blankets higher around her chin. She’s so cold, her fingers barely twitching when you clasp one of her hands in yours.
Her head shifts again, a weak movement that presses her cheek more firmly against your chest. There’s something instinctual in it, like she’s seeking warmth, seeking you, even if she doesn’t have the strength to say it.
The thought sends a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. You let them fall silently, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other continues to rub slow, steady circles into her back beneath the layers of blankets.
Minutes crawl by. You don’t let go, don’t even shift your position despite the dull ache settling into your legs and back. The lantern’s glow flickers slightly, the shadows in the attic dancing across the wooden beams, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from her face.
“Where…” Her voice is barely a whisper, rough and broken, and it startles you enough to pull back just slightly to look at her.
Her eyes are open again, more focused this time but still clouded with confusion. Though, her light eyes have blown pupils, she blinks up at you, her lips trembling, as though she’s struggling to form the words.
“You’re in the attic,” you say quickly, your voice soft. “I found you outside. You—” Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow hard before continuing. “You were in the snow, Jackie. You almost—”
The words lodge there, too sharp to say out loud.
Jackie doesn’t respond immediately. Her brows knit together, her gaze flickering to the blankets wrapped around her, then to your face. There’s a faint, fleeting flicker of recognition in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by a shadow of guilt or maybe even shame.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words so quiet you almost don’t hear them.
Your heart twists painfully at her tone. “Don’t apologize,” you say firmly, cupping her cheek. She leans into the touch, her skin still far too cold, but the movement gives you hope. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push back with the usual sharp edges of her personality. It’s that absence, that lack of fire, that frightens you the most. Jackie, the girl who could meet anyone’s gaze head-on, now looks like she’s shrinking into herself, her voice too fragile to hold onto.
“Jackie,” you start, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Why were you out there? What were you thinking?”
Her eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, you think she’s going to shut you out, to retreat behind that wall of indifference she so often uses to shield herself. But then her gaze drops, and her lips press together in a thin, trembling line.
“I don’t know,” she finally says, so quietly it’s barely more than a breath.
You can tell she’s lying, or at least not telling the whole truth, but you don’t push. Not now. Not when she’s still so fragile, her body trembling faintly despite the layers cocooning her.
“Okay,” you say softly, letting it go for now. “We can talk about it later—“
She closes her eyes again, her breathing shallow but steady. You stay there with her, cradling her in your lap, whispering soft reassurances whenever her face contorts with discomfort or when her body shivers violently beneath the blankets.
The storm outside howls against the cabin walls, but up here in the attic, it feels like you’re in a world apart—a small, fragile bubble where only the two of you exist. And as you hold her close, your arms aching and your heart heavy, you make a silent promise: you’ll keep her safe, no matter what it takes.
Jackie feels so small in your arms, tucked against your chest like this, a fragile bird too frozen to fly. Her cheek is pressed to your collarbone, her breath faint and shallow, and for the first time, she feels soft. Not soft in the way she always looks—pretty and perfect, even out here in the wilderness—but soft in the way that breaks your heart. Soft because she’s quiet, because she’s not nipping at you with sharp words or rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.
You don’t know what to do with that.
The silence in the attic feels both heavy and delicate, like a glass you’re afraid to shatter. You hold her closer, one hand still rubbing slow circles on her back beneath the blankets. Her hair brushes against your chin, damp but smelling faintly of her— of her scent.
She shifts slightly in your lap, and for a moment, your heart seizes, thinking she’s going to push you away. But she doesn’t. She lets out a quiet, shuddering breath instead, her body relaxing into yours just a little more.
Your arms tighten around her instinctively, your fingers smoothing over the edge of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. You can feel the way her body trembles, the aftershocks of the cold still wracking her frame, but there’s something else, too—something raw and unspoken in the way she leans into you.
She’s so unlike herself right now, and it terrifies you. Jackie isn’t like this—fragile, quiet, unsure. She’s sharp and stubborn, meeting you word for word in the banter that’s always felt like its own kind of intimacy. She arches an eyebrow at you and smirk when you can’t think of a good comeback fast enough. She tells you she’s fine in that clipped, almost dismissive tone that lets you know she cares even if she won’t admit it outright.
But none of that’s here now.
All you have is this version of her—the one who’s too cold and too quiet, the one who isn’t pushing you away or rolling her eyes, the one who feels terrifyingly breakable in your arms.
You let your forehead rest against the top of her head, closing your eyes as a tear slips free. “Jackie,” you whisper, her name soft and aching on your lips.
She doesn’t respond, but you can feel her fingers twitch against your side, the faintest attempt to move, to acknowledge you. It’s so weak, but it’s enough to unravel you further.
Your lips press into her hair, and you let the words spill out, quiet and trembling. “You scared me,” you admit, your voice thick. “I thought—I thought I was too late. I thought I lost you.”
Her head shifts slightly, her cheek pressing closer to your collarbone, but she doesn’t speak. Maybe she can’t, or maybe she doesn’t know what to say. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You don’t need her to say anything. You just need her to stay here, with you, breathing, alive.
You pull back just enough to look down at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes flutter open at the touch, still glassy and tired but more focused than before. She blinks up at you, her brows furrowing faintly, like she’s trying to piece together where she is, why she’s here.
“Hey,” you whisper, your lips curving into a small, shaky smile. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Jackie doesn’t answer, but there’s something in her gaze that lingers—something vulnerable, unguarded. It’s so unlike her usual fire, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken by it.
“I’m here,” you say again, softer this time, your thumb brushing over her temple.
Her lips part slightly, but all that comes out is another soft sound—a breath, a murmur. She looks at you like she wants to say something, like she’s searching for the words, but they never come.
And that’s okay.
“Just rest,” you whisper, shifting her gently in your lap so she’s nestled closer, her head tucked under your chin. “I’ll keep you warm. I promise.”
The promise feels heavier than it should, like it’s meant for more than just tonight.
You adjust the blankets around her, making sure every part of her is covered, and press your cheek to the top of her head. Her shivering is slowing, her breathing deepening ever so slightly, and you take comfort in those small signs of life, even as the ache in your chest refuses to fade.
Jackie’s hand moves then, weak and slow, but deliberate. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clinging to you in a way that makes your heart ache. She’s not pushing you away. She’s holding on, even if it’s barely there, even if it’s just enough to let you know she feels safe.
You let out a shaky breath, your arms tightening around her again. “I’ve got you,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.
And for the first time in what feels like hours, you believe it