She just braces—jaw tight, breath shallow, eyes focused—like this isn't the first time she's stared death in the face.
Who the hell is she?
I lift my rifle and fire a shot, aiming to graze the sniper's shoulder.
Not to kill—but enough to disrupt, to force a decision.
It works. The sniper stumbles back, retreating into the shadows like smoke.
But I can’t let this end here—I can’t leave her in danger.
I take a deep breath, level my aim again, and fire another shot aimed toward the sniper’s position, hoping to scare him off entirely.
I don't waste the opportunity.
I sprint toward her, using the terrain for cover, moving in quick bursts between exposed stretches.
She hears me coming and grabs a rock, arm tensing as she prepares to fight—until recognition flickers across her face when she sees me.
First, confusion.
Then, something else I can't name.
Then, her body finally betrays her as the adrenaline crashes, and she starts to collapse.
I catch her before she hits the ground.
Again.
Her skin burns against my arms even through layers of wet clothes. Each breath comes ragged and shallow, her chest heaving with effort as the hypothermia and fever wage war in her system.
Frostbite threatens her exposed fingers, the tips already turning an angry red that will soon give way to worse if I don't act fast.
"It's me," I growl, eyes still scanning for the sniper. "You're safe now."
She doesn't fight me this time. Her eyes find mine in the darkness, pupils wide with fear and something else—a silent plea that saysDon't let go. That look does something to me, cracks something I didn’t even know I was holding back.
I scoop her up—soaked, shivering, scraped raw—and run. One arm supporting her back, the other under her knees, rifle now slung awkwardly across my shoulder. Her head falls against my chest, her body trembling violently as hypothermia sets in.
Even as I sprint, I can't ignore how her body molds to mine, or the exposed line of her throat pressed against my chest.
The primal part of my brain registers these details when itshouldn't, when there's no time for such thoughts.
"I've got you," I say, the words feeling foreign, strange. How long since I’ve said that to anyone? "Just stay conscious."
She mumbles something I can't catch, fingers weakly gripping my jacket. I scale the slope with her in my arms, using roots and rocks for leverage.
My muscles burn with the effort, but I push through it, hyperaware of every shadow, every sound. The sniper is still out there, watching. Waiting. I can feel it.
The temperature is dropping by the minute. She's soaked through. If I don't get her warm soon, the cold will do what the sniper didn't.
"My phone," she manages to say, teeth chattering so hard she can barely form the words.
"Later," I tell her, quickening my pace as the cabin comes into view. "First, we get you warm."
"N-no," she insists, her voice stronger somehow despite her failing body. "D-don't touch it."
I don't have time to argue. The clearing before my cabin lies exposed, a dangerous stretch of open ground with no cover. I pause at the treeline, scanning for threats.
