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The cold doesn’t wake Jackie all at once. It settles into her slowly, quietly, the way regret does when there’s nowhere left to run from it. She’s curled on her side just beyond the cabin wall, knees pulled toward her chest, jacket twisted tight around her like it might hold her together if she squeezes hard enough. The ground beneath her is unforgiving, frozen solid, every ridge and stone pressed into her ribs and hip. Her cheek rests against dirt that smells sharp and metallic with frost. Her breath fogs weakly in front of her mouth, each exhale thinner than the last.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the fight is still happening. Shauna’s voice was cracking but furious. The way her eyes wouldn't meet Jackie’s, as if she did, they might both shatter. Jackie hears her own words too, sharp and defensive, poorly chosen and thrown worse. She remembers standing up too fast, knocking over a crate, the sound echoing in the cabin like a gunshot. She remembers storming outside with her heart pounding, convinced that space would fix everything. A few minutes alone would cool her off.
She doesn't remember lying down. She doesn't remember closing her eyes.
“Jackie.” The voice is far away at first, muffled, as if coming through layers of snow and sleep.
“Jackie. Hey. Jackie, wake up.”
Something hard repeatedly taps her shoulder. Not rough, but insistent. Jackie groans, a slight sound that barely escapes her throat. Her body feels wrong, like it's filled with sand instead of bones. Her fingers tingle painfully, half numb, half burning. Her lips feel thick, unresponsive.
“Jackie,” the voice says again, closer now. There’s fear in it. Barely contained, but real.
She forces one eye open. The world swims, unfocused, all dark shapes and gray light. Pine branches loom overhead, their outlines blurred. A figure crouches beside her, blocking out the sky—Coach Ben. For a moment, she's sure she's dreaming. It would make sense. Her brain has always been good at inventing ways to punish her. A lecture from Coach Ben feels fitting, deserved. She blinks slowly, waiting for him to dissolve.
He doesn't. Instead, he swears under his breath, the sound sharp, and human, and very real. “What the fuck.”
Jackie frowns weakly. “Wow,” she murmurs. “That’s rude.”
Relief flashes across his face so fast she almost misses it. “You’re awake,” he says. “Okay. Good. Stay awake.”
She tries to push herself up and fails immediately. Her elbow slips uselessly in the dirt, and she drops back down with a breathless laugh. “Guess I’m… not at my best right now.”
“Don’t move,” Ben says quickly. He shrugs out of his coat without asking and drapes it over her shoulders. The fabric is stiff with cold, yet warmer than the air. It smells like smoke, damp wool, and a faint herb scent of the salve Misty insists on making. “Just stay with me for a second.”
The weight of the coat settles around her, and suddenly her body remembers how cold it's. Her teeth start chattering violently, her jaw knocking together hard enough to hurt.
Ben’s expression tightens. “How long have you been out here?”
Jackie squints, trying to think. Her head feels stuffed with cotton. “I don’t know. I left after dinner. Or maybe after… whatever that was.”
“That was hours ago,” he says quietly.
“Oh.” She stares at the ground. “That feels… bad.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
He helps her sit up slowly, one arm braced around her back, solid and steady. Jackie leans into him before she can stop herself. The warmth of his body is shocking, almost overwhelming. Her eyes sting, and she blinks hard, embarrassed by the sudden rush of feeling. They sit like that for a moment. Snow has begun to fall, light flakes drifting down lazily through the trees. One lands on Jackie’s sleeve. Another melts in her hair.
She watches it, detached. “It’s snowing.”
Ben lets out a breath that might have been a laugh if it did not sound so shaken. “Yeah. it's.”
She swallows. Her throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to… to die.”
“I know,” he says. His voice is softer now.
Jackie hugs the coat tighter around herself. “Why were you even outside?”
He hesitates. Looks back toward the cabin, where a thin line of flickering light glows through the cracks in the wood. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits. “And then I realized I hadn’t seen you come back in.”
Something twists in her chest. “You came looking for me?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. She looks up at him, and wonders when he got so old, so gaunt.
“I’m sorry,” Jackie blurts out. The word tumbles out before she can stop it. She doesn't even know which sorry she means. Sorry for the fight. Sorry for storming out. Sorry for being so stupid. All of it, probably.
Ben sighs, not annoyed, just tired. “I’m not here to hash out whatever happened in there.”
She nods, staring at her hands. They are pale, shaking uncontrollably. “I just needed space.”
“I get that,” he says. “But you can’t disappear like this. Not out here.”
She bristles automatically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He studies her for a long moment, eyes thoughtful, weighed down by something heavier than frustration. “It means people notice when you’re gone. It rattles them.”
Jackie scoffs weakly. “They’ll live.”
Ben doesn't rise to it. “You’re the team captain,” he says instead.
The words land heavier than she expects. Out here, they don't feel like a title. They feel like a burden she can’t shrug off, like an anchor dragging her beneath the waves.
“I don’t feel like one,” she mutters.
“No one ever does when it actually matters,” he says. “You think leadership feels good when everything is falling apart?”
She snorts despite herself. “Y-you still suck at pep talks.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. I know.” Then his expression turns serious again. “They need you in there, Jackie. Even the ones who are furious at you. Especially them.”
Her thoughts go straight to Shauna. The way she stood stiff and distant, like she was bracing for impact—Jackie’s chest aches.
“I messed things up,” she says quietly.
“Probably,” Ben agrees. “But freezing to death isn't going to fix it.” He offers her his hand. Jackie looks at it for a second, then takes it. His grip is firm, grounding, pulling her up with more strength than she expects. She sways when she gets to her feet, and he steadies her without comment.
Snow is falling steadily now, thick flakes swirling through the trees. The world feels muted, like everything is wrapped in cotton. They start toward the cabin together, Jackie leaning into him, his arm secure around her shoulders. Halfway there, she glances back at the dark patch of ground where she had been lying.
“That was really stupid,” she says.
Ben huffs out a breath. “Yeah.” Another pause. Then, softer, “I’m glad I found you.”
Jackie nods, her throat too tight to answer.
They reach the door just as the snow begins to stick, covering the ground behind them. The place where Jackie almost disappeared fades under a thin layer of white, as if it never happened at all.
The cabin door creaks open, and warmth hits Jackie like a wall. Not genuine warmth, not the kind that sinks into your bones, but enough that her skin prickles painfully as feeling rushes back in. She sucks in a sharp breath and immediately regrets it. The air inside smells like smoke, damp clothes, and something metallic she doesn't want to think too hard about.
A few of the girls are still awake inside, reading or mending clothes, and they stop their activities when they hear Ben’s crutches creak against the old wooden floor of the cabin. Jackie is suddenly very aware of herself. Of how she must look with Coach Ben’s coat hanging off her shoulders, hair tangled and dusted with snow, face pale and drawn. Her legs wobble again, and this time it’s not just the cold. It;s the weight of everyone’s eyes, the unspoken question sitting heavy in the room.
Shauna is sitting near the fire, knees pulled to her chest. She looks up last. Their eyes meet for half a second. Something flickers across Shauna’s face. Fear, sharp and unguarded, before it shutters closed again. Her mouth tightens. She gets up and climbs the ladder to the attic.
Jackie’s chest tightens painfully..
“Oh my god,” Misty says, already scrambling to her feet. “She could have had hypothermia. Her lips are kind of blue. Do you think we should rub her hands, or not? I read that sometimes rubbing makes it worse.”
“I’m f-fine,” Jackie says automatically. Her voice cracks. “I just fell asleep.”
Ben steers her toward the fire before Misty can get any closer. Jackie lowers herself onto a crate near the fire, hands held out toward the flames. The heat hurts, sharp pins of sensation stabbing into her fingers. She grits her teeth and says nothing.
Ben crouches in front of her. “You good?”
She nods, then shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s acceptable,” he says. He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “You scared them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers.
“I know.”
Misty reappears anyway, pressing a tin cup into Jackie’s hands. “Drink this. It’s warm.”
Jackie peers inside. It’s full of slightly murky water, a few pine needles floating on the top. “Is this… safe?”
Misty smiles too brightly. “Probably.”
Ben shoots her a look. “It’s fine,” he tells Jackie. “It’s just hot water.”
Jackie takes a careful sip. It tastes bitter, but it helps. Her shaking eases, little by little, though exhaustion settles heavier in its place.
“Coach,” Taissa says from across the room, voice tight. “Where is she sleeping?”
The question hangs there. Jackie’s stomach drops. She realizes, suddenly, that she doesn't know the answer. The idea of crawling back to her usual spot, anywhere near Shauna, feels impossible.
Ben straightens. “She’s not sleeping by the door tonight,” he says firmly. “There’s a spare room.” A few heads turn toward the small side room. It has been used for storage, with old crates and supplies shoved into corners.
From the corner of her eye, she sees Shauna stand abruptly and move toward the ladder to the attic. Taissa follows her without a word. The space they leave behind feels heavier than before.
Later, when most of the cabin has settled into uneasy quiet, Ben walks Jackie to the spare room. He moves slowly, like he is afraid she might shatter if he rushes her. He helps her sit on the thin mattress, and hands her his coat again when she tries to give it back.
“Keep it,” he says. “At least for tonight.”
Jackie swallows. “Thanks.”
After he leaves, Jackie lies back and stares at the ceiling. Snow taps softly against the window, steady and relentless. She thinks of Shauna. Of the look on her face when Jackie walked back in alive. Her eyes burn.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
The next morning, Jackie wakes up slowly, the way someone does when their body is still deciding whether it trusts the world enough to be conscious. At first, there's only sensation. Cold air on her face. The hard pull of a headache behind her eyes. A deep, aching soreness in her shoulder and hip, as she fell down a flight of stairs instead of lying down on frozen ground. She shifts instinctively and hisses, sucking in a breath through her teeth.
Okay. That answers that.
She opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. it's low and uneven, the wood darkened with age and smoke. For a few seconds, she doesn't recognize it. Panic flutters weakly in her chest before memory settles in. The spare room. Coach Ben’s coat. Snow.
She turns her head slightly. Frost has traced delicate white patterns along the edge of the small window, like veins. Pale light filters through, weak and gray, telling her it’s morning, but not a friendly one.
Jackie lies there longer than she needs to. Part of her hopes someone will come in and tell her what to do. Another part hopes no one will come at all.
Eventually, practicality wins. She pushes herself up carefully, testing her balance. The room tilts for a moment, then steadies. Her hands tremble faintly when she brings them into view. She flexes her fingers, relieved when they move, stiff but responsive.
Coach Ben’s coat is still draped over her. She hadn’t remembered pulling it closer in her sleep, but it's wrapped around her now, sleeves bunched awkwardly at her elbows. She considers taking it off. She doesn't.
The room is quiet in a way the cabin never is—no restless shifting. No whispered conversations or muffled steps. Just the wind outside and the occasional soft creak of wood. It feels almost peaceful, and the realization fills her with an uncomfortable mix of relief and guilt.
She stands slowly, wincing, and crosses to the door. Her hand pauses on the latch. For one irrational second, she considers staying in here forever. Then she opens it.
The main cabin greets her with noise and smell. Wood smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to everything. Someone is stirring something in the pot, the scent of cooking meat sharp and heavy. Morning light seeps through the windows, illuminating dust and ash floating lazily in the air. No one looks at her right away.
Natalie sits near the fire, sharpening a knife with slow, deliberate strokes. Van and Taissa stand near the window, murmuring to each other in voices too low to make out. Misty hovers by the pot like a guard dog, stirring far more than necessary.
Jackie scans the room without meaning to. Shauna isn't there.
Her chest tightens before she can stop it. The ache is immediate and familiar, settling deep under her ribs. She tells herself it's fine. it's easier this way. Easier not to see her, not to feel that electric tension snap between them every time they share a space.
“Morning,” Misty says brightly when she finally notices Jackie. “You’re alive.”
Jackie blinks. “Wow. Thanks.”
Misty beams. “You’re welcome.”
Coach Ben looks up from where he’s sitting, coaching Akilah through a particularly tricky math problem in her SAT book. His gaze flicks over Jackie, quick and assessing. “How do you feel?”
Jackie considers the question seriously. “Like I got hit by a truck,” she says. Then, quieter, “But better than last night.”
He nods, satisfied. “You should eat something.”
She obeys without argument, lowering herself onto a crate near the fire. The heat makes her skin prickle unpleasantly, but she doesn't pull away. Misty presses a strip of dried meat into her hands almost immediately.
Jackie looks at it suspiciously through narrowed eyes. “What is it?”
“Deer,” Misty says. “Probably.”
Jackie sighs and takes a bite. it's tough and gamey, but it grounds her, settles something hollow in her stomach. She eats slowly, deliberately.
She can feel the way the room is aware of her. No one stares openly, but conversations bend around her presence. Laughter sounds forced, brittle. She doesn't blame them. She left. She scared them. She nearly died outside their door. She keeps her eyes on the fire and finishes eating.
After breakfast, Coach Ben stands and disappears back into the spare room. Jackie hesitates only a moment before following him.
He is already sitting on the floor when she steps inside, a worn deck of cards in his hands. He looks up and lifts an eyebrow. “Thought you might want something to do.”
She closes the door behind her, the sounds of the cabin dulling instantly. “You assuming I’m bored already?”
“I’m assuming you don’t want to think,” he says, shuffling with easy familiarity.
Jackie snorts and sinks across from him, legs folded awkwardly. “Fair.”
They start playing. At first, they barely talk. The sound of cards shuffling and slapping against the floor fills the space between them. Jackie focuses on the simple rules, the familiar patterns. It feels grounding, almost soothing, to have something she knows how to do.
A few hands in, she pauses. “Wait. We’re missing a queen.”
Ben looks down at the cards, frowning. He flips through them quickly. “Huh. You’re right.”
Jackie stares at the deck like it personally offended her. “How do you lose a queen?”
“Apparently very easily,” he says. “Given our current situation.”
“That feels wrong,” she mutters. “A deck should be complete.”
He shrugs. “We’ll adapt.”
She gives him a look. “That’s easy for you to say.”
They decide the missing queen will count as a wild card. The rules get a little messy after that, but neither of them cares enough to argue. Jackie finds herself laughing when Ben accuses her of cheating, and the sound surprises her with its sincerity.
Hours seem to pass without either of them noticing. Outside, the wind howls and the snow piles higher against the walls. Occasionally, footsteps pass by the door. Voices drift close, then fade away.
Once, the door opens briefly, and Tai steps inside to grab a blanket from the corner. Jackie stiffens instinctively, her shoulders tensing. Tai barely acknowledges her, expression closed and unreadable, before leaving again.
Jackie exhales slowly and forces herself to pick up the cards again. Ben watches her for a moment.
“You okay?” he asks.
She shrugs. “I’m fine.”
He doesn't call her on it. “You don’t have to stay in here all day.”
She meets his gaze. “I know.”
“But you want to.”
“Yes.”
Ben nods silently, a flicker of sympathy in his dark brown eyes.
They keep playing. They talk about nothing and everything. About the team back home. About the stupid games they used to play on bus rides. Ben tells a story about losing his keys in a grocery store parking lot and blaming a raccoon. Jackie laughs harder than she expected to.
Every so often, her thoughts drift back to Shauna. She imagines her up in the attic, isolated and quiet. She wonders if she's eating. Wonders if she's cold. Wonders if she hates Jackie now. She never voices any of it.
By the time the light outside begins to fade, Jackie realizes something with a jolt of guilt. She’s been breathing easier in this room. The thought sits heavy in her chest as she deals another hand, the snow pressing harder against the cabin walls, the missing queen still absent from the deck.
The days settle into something like a pattern after that, though Jackie would hesitate to call it routine.
Morning comes gray and muted, light filtered through snow-packed windows. Jackie wakes in the spare room now without confusion, without that sharp spike of panic. Her body still aches, but it's a familiar ache, manageable. Ben is usually already up, moving as quietly as someone on crutches can so he doesn't startle her, though she wakes anyway every time. Old habits die hard.
They eat together most mornings, sitting on opposite crates near the fire, sharing whatever portion Ben has managed to squirrel away for the two of them. No one says it out loud, but it becomes understood quickly. Jackie sleeps in the spare room. Jackie eats with Coach Ben. Jackie stays out of the way.
It's not exile, exactly. No one tells her to leave. No one confronts her or demands explanations. In some ways, that is worse. She floats at the edge of the group like a ghost, present but untouched.
Shauna stays in the attic.
Jackie learns this without anyone telling her. She hears the creak of the ladder at odd hours, sees Taissa carrying food upward, blankets folded carefully in her arms. She never sees Shauna come down. The absence presses in on Jackie, a constant, dull pressure she cannot escape.
She avoids the ladder instinctively, her body angling away from it whenever she passes. She tells herself it's for the best. Space, after all, is what started this. Space is safer.
In the spare room, time passes strangely. They play cards until dark almost every day, playing a random rotation of blackjack, poker, and whatever other games the two of them could remember the rules to. The missing queen becomes a joke between them, something they reference whenever a rule breaks down, or a hand feels unfair.
“Guess the queen’s at it again,” Ben mutters when Jackie draws a perfect 21 for the third time that day.
Jackie smirks.
Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don't. Ben never pushes. He has a way of filling silence without crowding it, talking about mundane things like practice drills or old games, stories Jackie half-remembers but listens to anyway. It feels grounding, like being reminded of a version of herself that existed before all of this.
Other times, the silence stretches, thick and heavy. Jackie stares at the wall, her thoughts drifting no matter how hard she tries to keep them anchored.
She thinks about the fight, replaying it from different angles, searching for a version where she says something different, something softer. She thinks about Shauna’s hands, always busy, always fidgeting. She thinks about how quiet the attic must be, how alone.
At night, the cabin creaks and groans as the temperature drops. Jackie lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind scrape against the walls. Sometimes she hears movement overhead and wonders if Shauna is awake too, if she's thinking about Jackie in the same aching, circular way.
The tension in the cabin becomes something physical. Conversations grow shorter. Tempers flare over nothing. Food disappears faster. The snow outside rises higher, sealing them in.
Misty grows more intense, hovering near the attic whenever Tai goes up, offering suggestions that no one asks for. Natalie snaps at her more than once. Van paces. Lottie grows quieter, watching everyone with an unsettling calm as she gently traces the scar on her forehead.
Jackie notices it all, even from the sidelines. Ben notices Jackie noticing.
One afternoon, after a particularly quiet game of rummy, he speaks without looking up. “You can’t carry everyone on your back forever.”
Jackie frowns. “I’m not carrying anyone.”
Ben sets the cards down and finally looks at her. “You always think you are responsible for how everyone feels.”
Jackie scoffs weakly. “No, I don’t.”
“You do,” he says gently. “You always have.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then stops. The words don't come. Instead, she looks away, jaw tight. “I just don’t want things to fall apart,” she says finally.
Ben nods. “I know.”
Another day passes. Then another. The moment it happens, it feels unreal.
Jackie is in the spare room with Ben, half-asleep, idly sorting cards into neat piles for no reason at all. The cabin is unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles at the back of her neck.
Then she hears it. A sharp, broken scream echoes down through the cabin, followed by frantic movement—the scrape of the ladder. Voices raised, overlapping.
Jackie’s head snaps up. Her heart slams into her ribs.
“Shauna,” she says, already on her feet.
Ben is moving too, faster than she has seen him move in days. “Stay here,” he says automatically. Jackie ignores him.
The main room is chaos when she bursts through the door. Misty is already halfway up the ladder, Taissa close behind her. Natalie stands frozen near the fire, eyes wide. Van grips the back of a chair like she's bracing for impact.
Another cry sounds, raw and agonized.
Jackie’s breath catches painfully. Her body wants to move, to do something, but there's nowhere for her to go. The ladder is blocked. The attic feels impossibly far away. She stands there, useless, hands clenched into fists.
Time stretches, distorts. Voices drift down from above, urgent and panicked. Misty’s instructions are sharp and fast. Taissa’s voice trembles as she responds. Shauna screams again, and Jackie flinches like she has been struck.
Hours pass. Or minutes. She can’t tell. At some point, Coach Ben appears at her side, steady and solid. He doesn't say anything. He just stays.
When the screaming stops, the silence is worse. Jackie’s ears ring. Her stomach twists violently. She waits for something, anything, to break it. A cry. A sound of life.
Nothing comes.
Eventually, footsteps descend the ladder. Misty appears first, her face pale and slick with sweat. She doesn't meet Jackie’s eyes. Taissa follows, her expression hollow, devastated. Jackie’s heart drops.
She doesn't remember crossing the room, only that suddenly she's there, staring at Shauna as she's carried down carefully, wrapped in blankets. Shauna’s face is gray and slack, her eyes unfocused.
“Shauna?” Jackie whispers.
Shauna doesn't respond.
Someone presses something into Shauna’s arms. Jackie sees the bundle. Small. Too still.
The world tilts violently.
Shauna looks down slowly, confusion knitting her brow. “Why can’t I hear him crying?” she asks, voice thin and distant. Jackie feels something tear open inside her.
She looks at the baby. At Shauna’s face. The way everyone avoids looking at either of them. Jackie’s vision blurs. She can’t breathe.
She turns and stumbles toward the spare room, the sound of the door slamming behind her echoing like a gunshot. She collapses against the wall, sobbing so hard it steals the air from her lungs.
For the first time since the snow began to fall, Jackie wishes she had never woken up.
The world doesn't stop after that. It just slows, stretches, and becomes something thick and unbearable to move through. Jackie doesn't know how long she will stay in the spare room. Time loses its edges. She slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself like that might hold her together. Her sobbing comes in waves, violent and gasping at first, then quieter, uglier. The kind that leaves her throat raw and her head pounding.
She hears movement outside the door. Voices. Someone knocks once, tentative, then thinks better of it. No one comes in. she's grateful for that, even as it hurts.
Eventually, exhaustion claims her. Not sleep, exactly, but a numb, hollow stillness where tears no longer come. She stares at the wall until her eyes burn.
When she finally leaves the room, the cabin feels wrong. The fire has burned low. People move carefully, deliberately, like any sudden motion might break something already fractured beyond repair. No one looks at Jackie as she passes. Or maybe they do, and she just cannot tell anymore.
Shauna is sitting near the fire, wrapped in blankets. Tai sits beside her, one arm braced firmly around her shoulders. Shauna’s face is blank, emptied of something essential. Her eyes look too big, too distant, like she's staring through the cabin instead of at it.
Jackie stops a few steps away. She wants to say something. Anything. I’m here. I’m sorry. I love you. The words pile up in her throat and refuse to come out.
Shauna doesn't look at her. Jackie stands there for a moment too long, then turns away.
The burial happens the next day.
The snow makes everything harder. The ground is frozen solid, stubborn, and unyielding. Jackie watches from a distance at first as Natalie and Van work in the earth with whatever tools they can manage, breath puffing out in sharp white clouds. Each strike against the ground sounds wrong, too loud in the quiet.
Shauna stands a few feet away, swaying slightly, wrapped in blankets. The bundle in her arms is small, impossibly so. Jackie’s chest tightens painfully at the sight.
She forces herself closer.
The baby is wrapped carefully, reverently. Furs tucked in around him like they might keep him warm even now. Jackie swallows hard and looks away before the tears come back.
When the shallow grave is finally finished, Shauna kneels stiffly and lowers her son into the ground. Her movements are slow and precise, like she's afraid of doing it wrong. No one speaks. The sound of earth hitting fur is soft, muted by snow. Jackie flinches anyway.
When it's done, Shauna places stones over the grave, one by one. Her hands shake violently by the time she finishes. People begin to drift away, one at a time, unsure of what to do now that the worst part is over. Jackie lingers, rooted to the spot. Shauna remains kneeling, staring at the stones.
Jackie steps closer, her boots crunching softly in the snow.
“I’m sorry, Shauna,” she says. The words feel inadequate the second they leave her mouth. Too small. Too empty.
Shauna doesn't respond. She doesn't even turn around. Jackie stands there for a moment longer, then leaves, the cold biting sharply at her face.
The days that follow blur together. Jackie and Shauna exist in the same space only by accident. They pass each other without speaking. Sometimes their eyes meet for half a second, and something raw and painful flickers there before one of them looks away.
Jackie tries, in small ways, to be near without being intrusive. She leaves an extra piece of meat near where Shauna sits. She sets a pair of socks near Shauna’s bed without comment. She makes sure Shauna has water before anyone else notices it's running low.
Shauna never acknowledges it. The rejection hurts, but Jackie keeps doing it anyway.
One afternoon, Jackie finds Shauna sitting on the porch, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, staring out at the falling snow. The world beyond the cabin is silent and white, endless. Jackie hesitates only a second before sitting down beside her. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't ask permission. She just sits, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
After a moment, she reaches out and places a careful arm around Shauna’s back.
Shauna stiffens, then breaks. She collapses sideways into Jackie, her sobs turning harsh and desperate. Jackie tightens her grip automatically, one hand coming up to rub slow circles between Shauna’s shoulder blades. She says nothing, just holds her.
For a fleeting second, Jackie is transported back to another time. Pre-teen Shauna curled up beside her on a bed that smelled like laundry detergent and cheap perfume. Shauna was crying quietly while Jackie rubbed her back and promised things would be okay, and that it wasn’t her fault her dad had left. The memory hurts, sharp and sweet all at once.
They stay like that until the cold becomes unbearable.
After that, they are inseparable again in a way that feels fragile and strange. They don't talk about what happened. They don't talk much at all. They simply exist near each other. Jackie sits beside Shauna. Jackie sleeps close. Jackie watches.
Her gestures grow slowly, carefully bigger. An extra portion of food. A blanket tucked closer. One night, when the cold is especially vicious, Jackie lays her own blanket over Shauna before returning to her spot in the spare room. She freezes that night, shivering and sleepless, but she doesn't regret it.
In the morning, Shauna confronts her.
“What was that?” Shauna snaps, eyes bright with anger and something else Jackie cannot name. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide things for me.”
Jackie opens her mouth to explain, to apologize, to justify herself. Instead, she bursts into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “I’m just so sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words come out broken and relentless, and she can’t stop them, even if she wants to.
Shauna stands there, stunned, anger faltering as she watches Jackie fold in on herself. For a long moment, neither of them moves.
Shauna steps forward, stops an arm’s length away. For a second, Jackie thinks she's going to yell. Or slap her. Or do nothing at all, which might hurt the worst. Jackie’s shoulders are shaking so hard she can barely breathe, hands clenched in the fabric of her sweater like she's bracing for impact.
“I didn’t mean—” Jackie tries, but the sentence collapses under its own weight. She presses the heel of her hand to her mouth, as she can physically hold the sobs back if she tries hard enough. “I just thought… I just wanted you to be warm. I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to fix anything. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Shauna stares at her. Her face is tight, drawn, eyes rimmed red and hollowed out by exhaustion. She looks older somehow, like something essential has been burned away and left sharp edges behind. Jackie has the terrible thought that she will never look at her the same way again.
“Stop,” Shauna says.
Jackie flinches.
“I didn’t say stop caring,” Shauna continues, voice rough. “I said stop deciding for me.”
Jackie nods frantically. “I know. I know. You’re right. I just—” Her voice breaks completely. “I’m scared all the time, Shauna. I almost died. And then you—” She chokes, the word baby lodged painfully in her throat, impossible to say. “And I wasn’t there. I should have been there.”
Shauna’s jaw tightens. “You couldn’t have changed it.”
“But I should have been there anyway,” Jackie says. Tears spill over, hot and relentless. “I left you. Again.”
Something shifts in Shauna’s expression. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the sharpest edge dulls, just slightly.
“You didn’t leave,” Shauna says quietly. “You were downstairs.”
Jackie lets out a broken laugh. “That feels worse.”
Shauna exhales slowly, like she's deflating. She looks past Jackie for a moment, then back again. “I don’t know how to exist right now,” she admits. “Every time someone does something nice, it feels like they’re trying to make it better. And it’s not better. It’s never going to be better.”
Jackie nods, tears still falling. “I know.”
That makes Shauna pause. “You don’t.”
“I do,” Jackie says softly. “Not the same way. But I know what it’s like when something breaks, and everyone keeps acting like you’re supposed to glue it back together and move on.”
Shauna studies her, searching her face like she might find a lie there. Instead, she just finds Jackie. Red-eyed. Shaking. Completely undone.
“I’m so angry,” Shauna whispers. “All the time. At you. At myself. At everyone.”
“I can take it,” Jackie says immediately. “You can be angry at me. I won’t go anywhere.”
The words hang between them, fragile and dangerous.
Shauna’s breath stutters. “You can’t promise that.”
Jackie swallows. “I can try.”
For a long moment, neither of them moves. The cabin feels too small, the air too thin. Jackie becomes acutely aware of how close they are, how easy it would be to reach out again, how terrified she's to do the wrong thing one more time.
Finally, Shauna speaks. “Don’t do things for me without asking.”
Jackie nods. “Okay.”
“And don’t disappear again,” Shauna adds, voice barely audible.
Jackie’s throat tightens painfully. “Okay.”
Another pause. Shauna’s shoulders sag. The anger drains out of her in one long, exhausted breath, leaving only grief behind. She looks suddenly unsteady, like she might fold in on herself if Jackie doesn't act.
So Jackie does the only thing she knows how to do.
“Can I—” she starts, then forces herself to stop. She meets Shauna’s eyes. “Can I sit with you?”
Shauna hesitates. Then she nods once.
Jackie sits. Close, but not touching. She keeps her hands folded in her lap, fingers laced together so tightly they ache. She can feel Shauna beside her, the heat of her body, the slight tremor that runs through her when she exhales.
Minutes pass.
Shauna’s breathing grows uneven again. A quiet sound escapes her throat, halfway between a sob and a whimper. She curls inward, arms wrapping around herself.
Jackie’s entire body screams to reach out. She waits.
“Jackie,” Shauna whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
Jackie moves slowly, deliberately, giving Shauna every chance to pull away. She slides an arm around her shoulders, gentle, careful. Shauna leans into it immediately, like she has been holding herself upright by sheer force of will and has finally run out.
The sob that breaks out of her is raw and devastating. Shauna buries her head in the crook of Jackie’s neck, and Jackie wonders how two people can fit together so perfectly.
Jackie holds her close, one hand cradling the back of Shauna’s head, fingers threading into her hair the way she has done a thousand times before. She rocks them slightly, not even realizing she's doing it.
“I’ve got you,” Jackie murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Shauna clutches at Jackie’s sweater, fingers digging in like she's afraid Jackie might vanish if she lets go. Her cries come hard and fast, her whole body shaking with the force of them. Jackie feels them like a bullet to her heart.
Later, when Shauna’s sobs quiet into exhausted hiccups, she slumps against Jackie, boneless and spent. Jackie adjusts carefully, shifting so that Shauna is supported and warm. They sit like that for a long time.
When Shauna finally pulls back, her eyes are swollen and red, her face blotchy and wet. She looks embarrassed, immediately bristling, but Jackie gets there first.
“Don’t,” Jackie says softly. “Please don’t be embarrassed.”
Shauna swallows. “I hate that you saw that.”
Jackie brushes a thumb gently under Shauna’s eye, wiping away a tear without thinking. “I hate that you had to go through it.”
Shauna doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans her forehead briefly against Jackie’s shoulder, just for a second. “You’re still really annoying,” she mutters.
Jackie lets out a watery laugh. “I know.”
They stay close after that. Not healed and not fixed, but tethered. For the first time since the snow started falling, the silence between them doesn't feel like a threat.
After that, something shifts, but it's not peace. it's not forgiveness. it's something quieter and far more fragile. Jackie becomes a constant again.
Not in the loud, effortless way she used to be, all confidence and easy authority, but in a careful, deliberate one. She checks herself before speaking. Before touching. Before offering. Every instinct she has wants to smooth things over, to fix, to lead, but she holds it back with white-knuckled restraint.
They sit together most of the time now. On opposite sides of the fire, knees brushing, and on the porch, watching the snow fall in endless, silent sheets. At night, Jackie sleeps in the attic, closer than she has in weeks. Close enough that Shauna can feel her breathing, steady and warm. They still don't talk much. Words feel dangerous, like they might crack something open neither of them can survive.
Grief fills the spaces conversation used to occupy. Shauna moves like she’s underwater. Some days she barely eats. Other days, she eats mechanically, eyes empty, chewing because someone put food in front of her. Jackie learns her rhythms without asking. Learns when to sit close and when to give her space. Learns the particular look Shauna gets right before she folds in on herself.
When it happens, Jackie is there. Sometimes that means holding her while she cries until her voice gives out. Sometimes it means sitting in silence while Shauna stares at the wall, tears sliding down her face without sound. Jackie doesn't rush either. She doesn't say it will pass. She just stays.
The cabin feels different with them like this. The tension doesn't disappear, but it changes shape. People stop watching them so closely. Stop bracing for another explosion. Nat catches Jackie’s eye once across the room and gives her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Coach Ben notices too.
One evening, when Jackie slips into the spare room to grab wood for the fire, he looks up from where he is mending a torn sleeve. “You’re doing well,” he says quietly.
Jackie shakes her head. “I’m not doing anything special.”
He meets her gaze. “Exactly.”
The dreams start after that. Shauna wakes in the middle of the night, gasping, heart racing, hands clawing at the blankets like she's searching for something that isn't there. Jackie wakes instantly every time, body trained to it now.
“Hey,” Jackie murmurs, careful, low. “It’s okay. You’re here.”
Shauna never remembers what she dreamed about. Or maybe she does and can’t say. Either way, she curls into Jackie without speaking, forehead pressed against her collarbone, breath hitching until it slowly evens out. Jackie stays awake long after Shauna falls back asleep, staring into the dark, eyes burning. She thinks about how close she came to not being here. How easily Shauna could have gone through all of this without her.
The thought makes her chest ache.
A few days later, Jackie follows Shauna outside without thinking. Shauna is standing near the grave, snow clinging to her boots. The stones are half-buried now, softened by fresh snowfall. She doesn't turn when Jackie approaches.
Jackie stops a few steps back, unsure. The cold bites at her face, but she barely notices.
“I wasn’t trying to follow you,” Jackie says quietly. “I just… saw you leave.”
Shauna nods once. “I know.”
They stand there together, breath fogging the air. Jackie keeps her hands firmly at her sides, resisting the urge to reach out.
“I keep thinking I hear him,” Shauna says suddenly.
Jackie’s breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Sometimes I swear I can hear him crying,” Shauna continues, voice flat. “And then I remember he never did.”
The words hollow Jackie out.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that,” Shauna admits.
Jackie swallows. “You don’t have to do anything with it.”
Shauna finally looks at her. Her eyes are red, but steady. “Thanks.”
The word feels enormous.
That night, Shauna reaches for Jackie first. Not in panic. Not in desperation. Just a quiet, deliberate movement, fingers curling into the fabric of Jackie’s sleeve. Jackie freezes for half a second, then shifts closer, heart pounding.
Shauna rests her head against Jackie’s shoulder. “You can stay,” she murmurs.
Jackie exhales a breath she feels like she has been holding for weeks. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
Shauna doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. They fall asleep like that, bodies pressed together, a blizzard outside raging on.
The next few days blur together, but not in the numb, empty way Jackie expects. They blur because everything is quiet and heavy and constantly on the verge of spilling over, and because she's always, always aware of Shauna.
Shauna starts talking again. Not a lot. Not about anything important. But she speaks.
It’s little things at first. A dry comment about Misty hovering too close. A muttered complaint about the way the fire keeps smoking no matter how carefully someone tends it. Once, when Natalie burns her hand on a mug of hot water, Shauna lets out a weak huff of laughter before she can stop herself, and then she freezes like she’s done something wrong.
Jackie notices. She doesn’t say anything. She just keeps sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, pretending she didn’t hear the sound catch halfway in Shauna’s throat. Pretending it didn’t make her chest ache with something like relief.
At night, Shauna keeps waking up. Sometimes it’s a sharp gasp that pulls Jackie out of sleep instantly. Other times it’s quieter, just a sudden stiffness beside her, Shauna’s breathing going shallow and uneven. She doesn’t speak right away anymore. She’s learned that words can make it worse. Instead, she shifts closer, slow and deliberate, giving Shauna time to pull away if she wants to.
Tonight, Shauna curls into her, fingers clutching at Jackie’s sleeve or the front of her sweater, grounding herself in the solid fact of Jackie being there. Jackie presses her cheek into Shauna’s hair and breathes with her, counting silently until the shaking eases.
One afternoon, Jackie finds Ben outside, helping some of the JV girls clear snow from the elevated wooden patio that circles the cabin. She hesitates, then steps out beside him.
“You doing okay?” he asks, not looking at her.
Jackie thinks about it. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But I’m doing better than I was.”
He nods.
She watches the snow fall for a moment. “She doesn’t hate me.”
Ben pauses, shovel resting against the ground. “No,” he says. “She doesn’t.”
Jackie’s throat tightens. “I thought she would.”
“She might have,” he admits. “If you’d kept trying to fix things instead of just being there.”
That night, the storm outside gets worse. The wind howls, rattling the walls, forcing cold air through every crack in the cabin. Everyone huddles closer together, blankets piled high. Jackie can feel Shauna shivering beside her, even though she’s wrapped up.
“Are you cold?” Jackie asks quietly.
Shauna hesitates. “A little.”
Jackie doesn’t move right away. “Can I?”
Shauna nods. Jackie shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around both of them, careful not to trap Shauna or crowd her. Shauna exhales slowly and leans into Jackie’s side, her head resting against Jackie’s shoulder as it belongs there.
Shauna’s fingers slip under the edge of Jackie’s sweater, resting against her wrist, skin warm despite everything. Jackie freezes for half a second, then lets herself relax into it.
“You’re warm,” Shauna murmurs.
Jackie swallows. “Yeah.”
They sit like that while the storm rages outside, while the cabin creaks and groans around them, while grief settles into something less sharp but no less real. When everyone else has drifted into uneasy sleep, Shauna shifts slightly, turning her face toward Jackie.
“Jackie?”
“Yeah.”
Shauna’s voice is barely audible. “Do you think he would have liked the snow?”
The question hits Jackie right in the chest. She takes a slow breath, steadying herself. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I think he would’ve.”
Shauna nods once, then presses her face into Jackie’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Jackie wraps both arms around her this time, no hesitation, no asking, because she knows. Shauna clings to her like she’s afraid of falling apart again, and Jackie holds on just as tightly, because she knows that fear too.
Finally, Shauna whispers, voice almost swallowed by the wind: “I… I don’t think I could have gotten through these days without you.”
Jackie swallows. “I wasn’t anywhere else,” she says softly.
Shauna’s eyes flick to her, red and raw. “I know. You stayed. Even when I… even when I didn’t deserve it.”
“You always deserve it,” Jackie murmurs.
Shauna turns her face slightly, resting her cheek against the wall. “It’s just… hard to feel like a person right now.”
Jackie shifts closer slowly, reaching out a hand. Shauna stiffens for a heartbeat, then relaxes, curling her fingers into Jackie’s. The touch is tentative, careful, but it’s something, and that is enough. Jackie presses her cheek against Shauna’s hair, feeling the warmth there, steadying herself in the quiet.
The night stretches on, long and intimate in a way Jackie has never experienced. She listens to Shauna shift, to her subtle movements, to the tiny sounds of her settling. Shauna whispers fragments into the dark: “I hate my body.”
Jackie tightens her hold.
“I feel empty,” Shauna says once, voice breaking. “And too full at the same time.”
“Shauna…”
“I thinking about him. I can’t… I can’t…”
Jackie’s chest tightens. “I think about him too. Every day.”
Shauna presses into Jackie’s shoulder and shakes her head.
“I should’ve… I should’ve done more.” Her voice cracks. “I should’ve… loved him more, or… or…”
“You did everything you could,” Jackie says gently.
Shauna shakes her head again, shoulders trembling. “It doesn’t feel enough. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, and I… I hate myself for it.”
Jackie leaned in slightly, brushing her thumb along Shauna’s shoulder, careful, slow, tender. “Don’t hate yourself,” she whispered. “You didn’t fail him. You loved him. You gave him all the love you had.”
Shauna presses her face into Jackie’s shoulder, tears soaking through the blankets, and Jackie wrapped her arms around her, holding her gently, rocking her slightly. “I’m here,” Jackie murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you. Not now. Not ever.” Shauna’s sobs shake her whole body, and Jackie lets her cry, offering no words to fix it, only presence to soothe it.
“I feel… so empty,” Shauna whispers between sobs. “And I can’t… I can’t… I keep thinking I should be happy that I lived, but all I feel is this… this emptiness.”
Jackie swallows, her throat tight, her own eyes burning in the dark.
“You don’t have to be happy,” she says softly. “Not right now. You don’t have to feel anything except what you feel.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Shauna whispers. “I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like anyone.”
Jackie hesitates, then presses her cheek gently against Shauna’s hair.
“Then you can just be here,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to be anyone tonight. You don’t have to figure anything out. Just… stay. With me.”
For a long time, Shauna says nothing. Her crying quiets into small, uneven breaths. Jackie keeps her arms around her, slow and steady, like she’s afraid if she loosens her hold even a little, Shauna might drift away.
“I keep thinking,” Shauna says finally, voice hoarse, “that there’s something wrong with me. That I’m broken. That a good person wouldn’t feel like this.”
Jackie pulls back just enough to look at her, even though the darkness barely lets her see.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” she says, firm but gentle. “You’re grieving. We all are.”
Shauna’s face crumples again, but this time she doesn’t turn away. She clutches at the front of Jackie’s shirt, like she needs something solid to hold onto.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” she whispers.
“Then you don’t do anything,” Jackie says.
Shauna lets out a shaky breath that almost sounds like relief.
They lie there like that for a long time, tangled together under the blankets, the night quiet around them except for the soft rhythm of their breathing. After a while, Shauna speaks again, smaller now, exhausted.
“Are you really not going anywhere?”
Jackie doesn’t hesitate.
“I’m here,” she says. “I’m staying.”
Shauna’s grip loosens slowly, her body going heavy with sleep at last, her face still tucked against Jackie’s shoulder. Jackie stays awake longer.
She listens to Shauna breathe, slow and even now. She keeps one hand resting lightly on her back, feeling the rise and fall, grounding herself in it. Outside, the night is cold and endless, and for the first time in a long time, neither of them is alone.