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Outside, the snow was falling like ash. It didn’t have the soft purity of quiet winters; this winter was a predator. It crushed everything in its silence, pressed the forest under a white, dirty weight, and turned every sound into a muffled, strangled whisper.
Inside the cabin, the cold was no less cruel, just quieter. The wood groaned under its own exhaustion, as if the winter were wearing it down from the inside as well.
The fireplace spat clumsy flames when Mason fed it a new handful of firewood. The fire crackled, almost irritated, as if it too was tired of fighting against that ancient cold seeping through the cracks. It didn’t look like enough, it never was.
Even so, the werewolf stayed there for a moment, watching, trying to convince the fire to stay alive a little longer. The whole cabin smelled of damp wood, stale air, days without opening the curtains. A smell he hated because he recognized it: it was the smell of Kieran fading.
A shiver ran down his back. That smell never meant anything good.
He knew he had to go to him.
So he walked toward the bedroom. And the cold followed him, clinging to his skin as if it, too, knew who he was about to find on the other side of the door.
And there he was, still on the bed. Not asleep, sunken into himself.
The blanket was half on the floor, as if it had slipped from a body that didn’t even try to hold onto it. His eyes were open, empty, two broken mirrors with no reflection. Blinking looked like a luxury he no longer had the right to, and his skin had that dull, almost translucent tone he always took on when the snow came: as if winter were slowly draining the life out of him.
He hadn’t spoken in hours, maybe days. He only breathed, sometimes. And when he did, the sound was a fractured murmur, something shapeless, like his throat refused to remember how to form full words.
Mason approached with slow, heavy steps, each one swallowing down the knot growing in his chest. Every year was the same; every winter left him shaking with fear. But this one... this one felt worse.
Because it was always winter. Always snow, always that past that still refused to let go of the vampire.
A winter like this had torn his Mother out of the world; the snow that had once been his joy had turned red with blood and open flesh. He hadn’t just lost his Mother, he had lost his entire family, the Callistos. And he was left alone. So alone that sometimes, on days like these, even his own name seemed to hurt him.
The werewolf sat at the edge of the bed and lifted him gently. The vampire didn’t resist; his body fell against him like dead weight, a body that breathed only out of habit. Mason placed a hand on his back and felt the trembling. That faint, constant trembling that appeared when Kieran went too long without eating, without moving, without being himself.
It was a silent deterioration. No shouting, no scenes. But it left marks. It left them in his eyes, in his skin, in a soul that sometimes seemed to be fraying.
—Ki...—
Mason whispered, but his voice cracked a little. He forced it back together, hiding the fissure beneath a softness he didn’t fully feel.
—Don’t do this to me.—
Kieran made a tiny sound, almost childlike, almost a whimper. His fingers curled weakly around Mason’s shirt. Not to hold on, just to keep from falling further.
The werewolf smelled the sour note of disorder: days without touching his hair, without changing his clothes, without caring about anything. He knew that if he weren’t here, the vampire would simply stare out the window until night fell. Over and over. Sunk in a mute cycle where only the snow and the dead existed.
—Love—
He tried again, softer, more broken.
—Look at me.—
The vampire’s eyelids trembled, as if the simple act of obeying was a brutal effort. When he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes were empty. Empty of himself.
—I can’t...—
Kieran murmured, barely audible.
—I can’t do this again...—
Mason swallowed hard. His throat burned.
—You’re not alone. Not this time, do you hear me?—
His words came out rough, almost a plea disguised as firmness.
The vampire shook his head with the smallest movement, a gesture of someone who no longer expected anything from himself.
—It always comes back—
He whispered.
—The snow... her... everything...—
The werewolf rested his forehead against his. The contrast was brutal: the animal warmth of his skin against the unbearable cold of the vampire. A cold that didn’t seem eager to leave him.
He held him. Not with tenderness, with restrained desperation.
—I’m not going to let you fade—
He growled low, with a rage that had nowhere to go.
—I... I can’t lose you.—
Kieran inhaled, the air trembling in his lungs, almost a sob without tears.
—I’m sorry...—
He whispered, shaking.
—I’m sorry, Mason...—
The word hit the wolf like a stone.
—You don’t have to apologize.—
He murmured, jaw tight.
—Not for hurting, not for feeling, not for remembering.—
Silence returned, heavy, almost alive. Mason pulled Kieran closer into his arms, wrapping him in the blankets, forcing him to stay pressed against his warmth. He held him tightly, as if holding him was an act of survival.
—If the snow and your ghosts want to take you—
He whispered, dark, with that protective harshness that destroyed him and made him human at once,
—...they’ll have to go through me first.—
The vampire pressed his lips together, as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t, as if there was a voice trapped in his chest. In the end, only a strangled whisper escaped:
—I’m scared...—
Mason closed his eyes for a second. That “I’m scared” was a knife.
—So am I—
He admitted for the first time, almost inaudible.
—But I swear... I swear I’m not letting you go.—
Outside, the snow kept falling with a cruel rhythm. The cabin groaned, exhausted, as if it too was tired of fighting the cold.
And in the middle of it all, Kieran breathed a little deeper. Barely noticeable, the smallest gesture... but enough to keep the werewolf from breaking.
Because even if he spoke little, even if his body was weak and his gaze lost, he was still there. Still resisting. Still sinking into the werewolf’s chest as if it were the only place winter couldn’t reach him.
And Mason held him like carrying him was the only thing he knew how to do.
If winter had come back to claim the life that slipped through its fingers years ago...
...it would have to tear him away first.
Even if the house froze.
Even if the forest died.
Even if the snow screamed with the voices of the dead.
Mason would not let go of him.
Not in this life.
Not in any other.