Her shoulders sagged slightly, the tension easing just enough to reveal how badly she was shaking from cold. What's your name? He asked, desperate to keep her awake. Naelli, she said after a moment. I'm Matthew.
Matthew Garrett. She acknowledged the name with nothing more than a blink. "You can't stay here," he said. "I've got a camp not far." "Fire, shelter. If you try to wait this storm out— I can walk," she said immediately, trying to shift her weight.
The moment she did, pain ripped through her again. She cried out despite herself and collapsed back into the snow, breath breaking, tears spilling freely now. "The truth was undeniable." Matthew crouched lower, careful not to crowd her. "You can't," he said gently. "And if you try, you'll bleed again.
I can carry you." Her head snapped up. No, I'll ask before I touch you, he said. I'll walk slow and I'll put you down the moment you say so. She shook her head, panic flashing through her eyes. The idea of being lifted by him, of surrendering that much control, terrified her more than the cold.
She wiped angrily at her tears, furious with herself for crying. But the wind howled louder, snow gathered on her lashes. The cold crept deeper. If you leave me, she said hoarsely, the storm will finish what you started. I'm not leaving, Matthew said at once.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and final. At last, Naelli closed her eyes just for a second, as if letting go of something she had been holding too tightly. "All right," she said quietly, but only because there is no other way. Matthew nodded, "Careful, Naelli. I swear I'll get you there." And as the storm closed in around them, Naelli made the hardest choice of the night not to fight, not to flee, but to trust.
Because the cold had left her no other mercy. The camp survived the storm by inches. Matthew carried Naelli the rest of the way through the night, his boots breaking through drifts already filling in behind them. He did not hurry, did not stumble. Each step was deliberate, paced to her breathing, to the way her fingers clenched weakly in his coat whenever pains surged through her leg.
When he finally lowered her beside the fire, dawn was still hours away, and the wind had not yet loosened its grip on the mountains. For the first day, Naelli drifted in and out of waking. Matthew stayed close, never crowding her, never turning his back for long. He fed the fire constantly, melting snow for water, warming strips of cloth before changing her bandages so the cold would not bite deeper into her flesh. Each time he touched her leg, she stiffened, fighting the pain with clenched teeth.
Tears slid free despite her effort to stop them. Dark lashes wet against frost paled skin. She did not sob. She did not beg. She endured.
And Matthew learned to recognize the moment just before the pain overwhelmed her when her breath hitched and her hands trembled. "I'm going to lift the bandage now," he would say quietly. "I'm going to press here. Tell me when it's too much." Sometimes she nodded. Sometimes she closed her eyes and said nothing at all.
And sometimes she whispered barely audible over the fire. now when she needed him to stop. He slept little that first night, waking at every shift in her breathing, every involuntary cry she tried to swallow. When the storm finally weakened, it left behind a silence so deep it felt fragile. The second day passed more steadily. Naelli was awake longer then, her eyes sharper, the fog of pain lifting just enough for her to observe him.
She noticed how he always checked his hands before touching her wound. How he kept his rifle leaned against a tree far from where she lay. How he offered food and water before she asked. When the pain came hard, she still cried, but now she did not turn away from him when she did. The tears came hot and relentless, streaking down her temples as she fought to keep her breathing even, jaw locked tight to hold back any sound that might betray weakness.
Matthew never looked away. I know, he said once when she hissed sharply as he tightened the bandage. I know it hurts. She swallowed, voice strained. Then don't rush, I won't.
That night, he wrapped his coat around her shoulders and sat close enough that the heat from his body reached her, though he did not touch her again once the bandaging was done. Snow fell lightly, no longer violent, settling into the quiet like ash. By the third morning, the worst of the swelling had eased. Naelli could sit up on her own now, could stand for a few moments with Matthew's steady arm supporting her weight. She tested her leg cautiously.
Breath tight with expectation of pain, but it held. "Not well, not yet, but enough. You did not let it fester," she said quietly as he checked the wound again. "That matters," Matthew nodded. "I couldn't afford to get it wrong." She looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind her eyes.
"You stayed," she said. "It was not a question. I told you I would." That was when the space between them began to change. With the storm gone and her strength slowly returning, the camp no longer felt like a place of desperation alone. They moved around each other more easily now, sharing tasks in silence.
Naelli gathered small branches while Matthew prepared food. She learned where he kept his supplies. He learned the rhythm of her steps, how she favored her leg without complaint. It was during one of these quiet afternoons that Naelli watched him clean his rifle. "You trust that weapon," she said.
He glanced up. "It saved my life," she considered that then nodded once. "Show me." Matthew hesitated only a moment before unloading it completely and placing it in her hands. He stood back as she raised it awkwardly, her stance stiff, unfamiliar. When she fired, the sound tore through the trees, sharp and violent.
Naelli flinched hard, lowering the rifle at once. Her face tightened. "Too loud," she said. "It frightens the land." Matthew let out a breath that might have been a laugh. That's fair.
She handed the rifle back without ceremony and reached instead for her bow, pressing it into his hands. This listens, she said, "If you let it." She taught him patiently how to stand, how to breathe, how not to force strength where calm was needed. Her corrections were light, two fingers adjusting his elbow, a quiet word. when he rushed the draw, he missed again and again. But she never scolded him again, she said simply. By the time the light faded, his arrow struck true.
The following morning, they found turkey tracks cutting across fresh snow. Matthew looked at the rifle leaning against a tree. Then at the bow in his hands, he chose the bow. The arrow flew silent. The bird fell without a sound.