Sloane stood up from the table first and started gathering up the dishes. "The cook doesn’t clean up," she countered Kacper’s incredulous look with a gentle sort of stubbornness before he had the opportunity to argue. She stacked the plates methodically, putting the emptied bones, and scraps all onto the top plate, then gathered up the silverware, and napkins into one of her hands. When he attempted to take the stack of dishes from her, she quickly scooped them up, and side stepped out of reach. With her hands full, she stuck her tongue out at him teasingly, then made her way back over to the kitchen and set down the plates gingerly on the counter beside the sink.
The soft thuds of her feet filled the quiet as she searched for the trash, eventually finding it tucked out of sight in one of the cabinets in the island. Sloane took one of the forks and carefully scraped the last remnants of food into the can, followed by the dirtied napkins, and cleaned bones. She closed the cabinet with the gentle bump of her hip before turning back toward the sink. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth gently, lost in silent focus as she stopped the drain, and turned on the faucet. Her fingers wiggled beneath the flow of water, adjusting the taps until the temperature was a tolerable heat. As the basin began filling, she put a small splash of soap into the rising water before setting the dishes into the sink.
Once the water level was high enough, she turned off the faucet, and set to scrubbing every plate and piece of silverware, with a meticulous and methodical sort of patience, making sure to clean every piece thoroughly. Everything about the sight was a strange sort of contrast. Sloane stood with the same sort of poise as she ate, straight backed with perfect posture, that made her look like she didn’t belong slaving over dirty dishes. But there was still small fractures in her perceived perfection, like the small tears in her tights from a needy kitten, the stray hairs that fell alongside her temples and dangled in her face, or the subconsciously innocent way her right foot rubbed the back of her left calf as she worked. Everything about her looked like a privileged girl who never did a chore a day in her life, yet she did the dishes with a surprisingly practiced ease.
Kacper’s first reaction was pure disbelief. He looked at her the way a man might look at someone who had just calmly announced they intended to walk barefoot into a blizzard for fun, his brows climbing and his mouth parting around the beginning of an argument she cut off before it ever had the chance to form. The second she sidestepped him with the plates and stuck her tongue out, though, the indignation cracked clean through. His expression softened so quickly it almost embarrassed him, some helpless mix of fondness and surprise pulling at the corners of his mouth as he watched her move through his kitchen like she’d been doing it for years, not hours.
There was something about it, the neat stack of dishes, the careful scrape of bones into the trash, the way she stood there in her burgundy sweater and torn tights and perfect posture, all polished edges and tiny imperfections, that made that odd little twinge in his chest return with a vengeance. She looked like she belonged in candlelight and libraries and velvet armchairs, not elbow deep in soapy water at his sink, and yet the practiced ease of her hands made it clear she was no stranger to taking care of what needed doing. He did not know what to do with how much that moved him.
So instead of fighting her, he got up. Quietly. Without making a scene of it. He fed a few more logs into the fire first, the flames waking with a soft crackle and brightening the room in a fresh wash of amber. Then he paused long enough to scratch Rocco behind the ears as the dog hovered hopefully at his knees, tail thumping once in sleepy approval before padding off toward Katryna.
She, for her part, took one look at Sloane voluntarily handling cleanup and made the morally questionable but entirely understandable decision to accept the gift with zero shame. “I’m not moving unless the cabin catches fire,” she declared from the couch, already curling into the cushions as Rocco climbed up to join her like he’d been invited to the throne.
Kacper snorted softly under his breath, shook his head, and moved into the kitchen with a quieter sort of purpose, slipping into the space beside Sloane with enough care not to crowd her. “Fine,” he murmured, voice low and warm as he reached for the bottle in the cupboard, opening it deftly and adding a generous amount to a kettle on the stove, flicking the burner on before grabbing a towel. “You wash. I’ll warm the cider… and dry.” It was the closest thing to surrender she was getting from him, but the look he cast her from the corner of his eye, soft, amused, and far too gentle, made it clear he didn’t mind losing this one at all.
Sloane looked up as she felt a presence slip into the space beside her. She knew it was him before looking and fought the temptation until she finished scrubbing the plate in her hands. It was only when she reached across in front of him to set the dish in the drying rack that she finally glanced up. Her smile was a little bashful and most definitely stubborn as she contemplated arguing further, but it seemed that Kacper wasn't going to budge further. So she conceded with a soft sigh and a small shake of her head. As she grabbed the next dirty plate and submerged it into the sink, her knit sleeves had traitorously started slipping down her forearms. She quickly pulled her hands from the sink and gave them a small shake before turning toward him with a warm, and surprisingly unguarded smile. "Can you push up my sleeves, please?" She asked with a chuckle as she held up her soap covered hands in front of her, revealing the fuzzy burgundy sleeves that had nearly fallen down to her wrists.
He stepped closer at her request. Close enough that the warmth of the sink water still clinging to the air mixed with the subtle, maddeningly soft scent of her shampoo and the faint sweetness of whatever fabric softener lived in that sweater. His hand lifted toward her wrist first, fingers catching the fuzzy cuff and easing it gently upward, careful not to smear soap against the knit as he rolled the sleeve up. The brush of his knuckles against the inside of her forearm was feather light, but it still sent that same stupid little flutter through his stomach, quick and bright and impossible to ignore. Her skin was warm. Softer than it should have mattered that it was.
He focused very hard on the sleeve.
He rolled the second sleeve next, thumbs brushing lightly over the slender line of her arm as he pushed the fabric securely above her elbows, a touch more careful than strictly necessary. By the time he finished, his hands lingered for the briefest fraction of a second before he forced himself to pull them back and reached for the towel instead, because he was already in enough trouble without standing there looking dazed over someone’s soft arms. Still, when he glanced at her again, there was a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth, warm, amused, and just a touch too fond.
“There,” he said, lifting the dish towel like a peace offering as the cider began to warm behind him, filling the kitchen with that rich, autumn sweet smell. “You wash. I’ll dry. Teamwork makes the dream work… or something like that.”
She remained silent and still as he fulfilled her request. It was simple, mundane even, but for whatever unknown reason it carried a weight that sat heavy and charged in the vacuum of space between them. Sloane’s gaze had remained fixed on his hands as he pushed the fabric up her arms as if the sweater, or perhaps herself, was made of porcelain. She tried not to notice when his fingers brushed her skin, but her eyes snapped to them whether she wanted to or not. The silence was deafening. Their breaths were quiet, missable, and not quite steady, but in that suspended moment they were so loud it muffled the other noises of the cabin. The pets stirred around them and Kat groaned with a stuffed content, yet it all went unnoticed. There was a temptation to speak, but an even bigger draw not to, like the silence that hung between them was more fragile than the fabric he handled.
It was only when he finished that Sloane let her eyes slowly drift up until they met his gaze. "Thank you," she replied quietly, with an unintended softness that she quickly cleared her throat to try and mask. She turned back toward the sink, plunging her hands into the warm, soapy water as a way to ground herself or snap her back to reality… something. Her fingers searched along the bottom of the basin until she found the sponge. "You still shouldn't be cleaning or drying after doing all the cooking," she argued futilely, with a brief sidelong glance and a meek smile.
Kacper’s mouth curved the instant she thanked him, small and instinctive and softer than the usual crooked thing he wore like armor. It was a smile that stayed even as she turned away, though the tips of his ears betrayed him completely, warming pink beneath the dark fall of his hair as he reached for the first plate. The towel moved between his hands with practiced ease, his fingers tracing the rim, the center, the underside, methodical in a way that almost seemed reverent. For a moment he said nothing at all, only stood there beside her in the warm hush of the kitchen while the cider slowly heated behind them, the scent of spice and apple unfurling into the air like something meant to soothe. Then, with a small shrug that tried and failed to make light of it, his voice came quieter than usual, stripped of most of its sharp edges. “I like cleaning,” he admitted softly, almost shy despite himself. “It’s… something I have control over. When we were kids…” His words trailed off, and his eyes dropped to the plate in his hands with an intensity that was almost absurd, as though the ceramic might offer him an easier answer than the truth.
The silence stretched for a beat, not awkward this time, only careful. He dried the plate a little longer than necessary before finally setting it aside and reaching for the next, his shoulders held deceptively loose despite the tension quietly threaded through them. “We grew up in an orphanage in Szczecin,” he said at last, the city’s name shaped differently in his mouth, accented and heavy.
“And orphanages in Poland are about as nice as they are everywhere else.” Sarcasm bled through the words, but it was thinner than his usual bite, less a shield than an old habit. His jaw flexed once, and he dragged the towel over the next plate with the same measured precision, every movement too controlled to be casual. “Cleaning was one of the only things I could control back then,” he finished, quieter now, the confession set gently between them as if he wasn’t sure yet whether it was safe to leave there. “So… I guess some habits stick.”
Sloane slowly turned her head toward him, catching the hit of pink along his ears before her gaze drifted over his features, studying his face, and the way his expressions softened into something more authentic and pensive. Her hand slowed as it glided the sponge along a plate, submerged deep in the water, lost beneath a foaming layer of bubbles that clung to her forearms. She nodded silently, listening intently as a quiet, sympathetic warmth settled behind her eyes and tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I’ve never been to an orphanage," she confessed softly, her words mixing with the soft sloshes of water and the rhythmic hum of the towel running along porcelain. Her only exposure to orphanages came from movies and stories like Annie and Oliver Twist. She could only hope that their experiences were better than that. "But... There are worse things than being tidy," she mused, her smile softening as she pulled a cleaned plate from beneath the suds and held it out toward him.
Her fingers ran along the bottom of the basin until they brushed against another plate. She held it firmly in her left hand while her right took hold of the sponge and started working it along the surface in small circles. "I can understand though," Sloane added with a small, subconscious lull of her head tilting a fraction closer to him as she spoke. "School was like that for me." Her gaze remained fixed on the vanishing suds as the water shifted with her every movement. "My home life wasn’t… great, but my education was the one thing I could control," she added pointedly, mirroring his wording and sentiment as she continued. "I could pick and choose what I wanted to learn and how much. And books…"
Her words trailed off as her tone slipped into something warm and fond while her smile grew bright and unbidden, veiled behind brown locks that slipped from behind her ears. "They were my solace. When life became unbearable I’d escape into stories and brighter worlds where there was always a happy ending." She lifted her arm, using the back of her hand to brush loose hair out of her face, leaving a small trail of bubbles along her forehead before returning to scrubbing. "Or at least my favorites were the ones with happy endings," Sloane added sheepishly as she lifted another plate from the water and held it out toward him.
Kacper took the plate from her with that same careful precision, drying it in slow, deliberate passes while he listened to her speak, every word seeming to settle somewhere deeper than he wanted to examine too closely. There was something in the way she said school, the way her voice softened around books, that made him understand instantly, too instantly, what she meant without needing the rest spelled out. Control. Escape. Sanctuary dressed up as routine and pages and structure. His gaze flicked to the little streak of bubbles across her forehead again, and despite the weight of the conversation, despite the old ache of memory stirring in his ribs, the sight tugged a helpless smile from him. He shook his head faintly, the towel moving over the rim of the plate as he exhaled through his nose. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said, tone dry but quieter than usual, stripped of its harsher edges. “It was an old manor abandoned in 1939 during the war, and repurposed into an orphanage with no renovations. Winters were dreadful, and it was always the same meals.”
He wrinkled his nose at the thought, the expression so immediate and boyish it almost made the memory look smaller than it was. Almost. “Bland porridge, watered down stew, and stale bread, if we were lucky,” he added, shuddering with exaggerated offense as if the ghost of those meals still lurked somewhere nearby, waiting to strike again. “I swear I can still taste it if I think too hard.” But the dramatics softened at the edges the moment he spoke of something else, something warmer, and it showed plainly in the way his face eased, the way his shoulders lost a little of their old tension. He set the dried plate aside and reached for the next one she offered, his fingers brushing the towel along its surface while fondness bled through his voice uninvited. “I learned how to cook once we were adopted. Our father hired a chef to teach me.” There was pride there, yes, but gentler than his usual swagger, something rooted in gratitude rather than ego. “Best thing he ever could’ve done for me, honestly.”
Sloane’s expression subconsciously mirrored his, brows creasing and nose scrunched at the mention of what constituted a ‘normal’ meal in an orphanage. At one point she even made a quiet little bleh noise and stuck out her tongue. While she did harbor some animosity when it came to being raised within a privileged bubble, she was thankful for the private cook and never having to know what porridge tasted like. "Maybe I should call you Oliver Twist," she mused while lifting the plate from beneath the bubbles to better run the sponge along the porcelain. "So, your enjoyment for cooking comes from a childhood of depressing food?" she asked rhetorically, sparing him a soft sidelong glance. In another life, if she had been in his shoes, she’d like to think she would have a similar inclination… A need to make the world taste divine when she held the power beneath her fingertips. She saw it all the time, adults clinging to the small comforts they didn’t have as children. For Kacper that was a warm delicious meal. For her?... She was still figuring it out.
Kacper barked out a laugh before he could stop it, the sound warm and sudden in the cozy hush of the kitchen, bright enough to cut clean through the heaviness that had lingered there moments before. The grin that spread across his face was quick and crooked and a little too delighted by her teasing, like he was absurdly pleased she’d met him there instead of tiptoeing around the uglier edges of the truth. He set the dried plate aside and angled a look at her from the corner of his eye, one brow lifting in mock offense that never quite reached his mouth. “Oliver Twist is rude,” he informed her, though the laugh still clung to the words. “Accurate, though.”
He shrugged one shoulder, easy and loose, like the answer was obvious enough not to warrant embarrassment. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing down at the next plate in his hands as the towel moved over it in neat, practiced circles. “I think if you spend enough years eating food that tastes like wet sadness, you either stop caring entirely… or you get very invested in making sure it never happens again.” His nose wrinkled faintly, dramatic as ever, before his grin turned a touch smug. “It’s also why I’m so clean.” He flicked her a knowing look then, something playful and lightly self aware settling into his expression. “Apparently my childhood trauma came with seasoning and disinfectant.”
Sloane’s smile softened into something a little unsteady around the edges and pensive as her gaze fell to the soapy plate in her hand. Still, even as her own thoughts warred in her head, trying to sift through the truth to find what she could share, her grin never fully disappeared, not really. "My childhood trauma had…" She paused, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips for a second. "Very different side effects." Her eyes lifted from the dish, peering over at him from beneath loose hair that fell from her barrette.
If she were given the choice, she would much rather have a pension for food and being a neat freak over the fear of letting people in and flinching whenever someone touches her. The grass was always greener, she supposed. But she couldn’t imagine someone who would look at her lawn with longing. "I think, in the grand scheme of things, a passion for cooking and cleanliness is definitely one of the better outcomes," Sloane added with a gentle sincerity that didn’t travel much farther than the quiet sloshing of water and the growing bubbles of the kettle nearby. Then, before the conversation could slip into that dangerous far too serious hole again, she punctuated her comment with something light and playful. "You’ll make a lovely housewife someday." Her smile grew, settling into the comfortable mischief and banter that had already begun to sew between them.
Kacper snorted so abruptly that it hurt a little, the sound warm and rough around the edges as it broke free of him and scattered the last of the heavier mood she’d so deftly dodged. The corner of his mouth tipped upward first, then the other, until that familiar crooked grin was back in full force, boyish, wicked, and just a little too pleased with her for handing him something he could actually work with. He angled a look at her from the corner of his eye, then deliberately winked, shameless as ever, his brows lifting and waggling with exaggerated suggestion that made the whole gesture impossible to misunderstand. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low and honey warm with mischief, “Keep talking like that and I might start trying to prove just how good of a housewife I can be.”
Sloane’s cheeks grew warm and flushed before she could help herself. But even in that strange sort of bashfulness that left her chest feeling like someone had released butterflies loose in it, her smile remained and her gaze still lingered on his. She caught his implication—as if the dramatic eyebrow wiggle could be missed—and even had her own playfully comeback ready and waiting. Then, for whatever reason she couldn't quite explain, she let it drift away, instead responding with a quiet laugh as she turned her attention back toward the current dirty plate clutched in her hand… before her mind or mouth could run away with thoughts she couldn't humor.
Kacper caught the blush the second it bloomed, bright and immediate across her cheeks, and the sight sent a ridiculous, private sort of satisfaction curling through him before he could stop it. Something warm and smug unfurled low in his chest, a dangerous little thrill that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward as he busied himself with the plate in hand, pretending he was far more interested in porcelain than the effect he’d just had on her. He tried to brush the thought aside as quickly as it came, folding it up neatly and tucking it away to analyze later. Still, the grin lingered at the edges of his mouth, impossible to fully hide.
The cider behind them had begun to whisper against the kettle, the scent of apple and spice thickening in the air until the whole kitchen felt wrapped in something almost autumnal, almost safe. Kacper turned slightly toward her then, plate in one hand, dish towel slung loose over his shoulder now like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes landed fully on her, curious and intent and softened by the low amber light and everything she’d just confessed. The question came quieter than most things he said, but no less sincere for it. “What’s your favorite book?” It was such a simple thing, and yet the way he asked it made it feel like an offering, an open door, an invitation to tell him about the place she went when the world got too sharp.
His question ignited a bright, unbidden smile that curled proudly up into her cheeks still rosy from the warmth of the water, or perhaps his insistence in helping when he didn’t need to. Her lips pursed as she mentally ran her fingers along the spines of every book that lined the shelf in her cabin. Romance to fantasy, middle grade chapter books to literary classics. All of them were wonderful and cherished in their own way. Her hand dipped beneath the water, running along the bottom of the sink until she found the drain and popped it. The gargling of the sudsy water swirling down the drain filled the kitchen as she weighed the various titles against one another. It was only when the last drop vanished, leaving behind errant bubbles that Sloane turned to face him, wet dripping plate still gripped loosely between her fingers. "When I was younger it was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. As I’ve gotten older I’ve really grown to love Little Women."
There was a moment of silence between them, but no tension. It was surprisingly comfortable, filled with unguarded smiles and eye contact that lingered long enough that made her want to look away, but there was also a magnetism that kept her frozen in place. That was until the kettle’s whistle grew sharp, piercing the quiet like a blade. Rocco’s head popped up across the cabin, tilting curiously at the strange noise, while Sloane flinched, startled out of whatever daze held her in space. Her smile faded slightly as her gaze fell to the plate still clutched in her hand. She cleared her throat, inhaled softly, then looked back up as the weight of reality settled squarely back onto her shoulders. "I can finish," she commented quietly, reaching up to take the towel from where it rested over his shoulder. She flashed him a weaker, less convincing smile before turning back toward the sink and started drying the last remaining dish.
Kacper’s smile lingered when she answered, softening into something quieter, more thoughtful, as if he was carefully filing those pieces of her away somewhere private and important. “I’ve only read Little Women,” he admitted, voice warm with a touch of sheepish honesty as he turned away to rescue the kettle before it screamed itself hoarse. “Never really got into Narnia. I’ve seen the movies, though.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he pulled the kettle from the heat, the corners of his mouth lifting again. “But Little Women… yeah. I can see that.” There was no teasing in it this time, only a quiet sort of agreement, like somehow the book fit her in his mind the same way her love of libraries and happy endings already had.
The cider poured in slow, amber ribbons into three mugs he pulled from the cabinet, each one looking like it had been shaped by hand rather than stamped out in a factory. They were sturdy little things, round bellied and slightly flared at the rim, the glaze a deep, glossy teal that caught the firelight in ways that reminded him of the ocean and storms. Near the base and curling up in uneven ribbons along the sides, the raw brown clay was left exposed in earthy swirls, warm and rustic against the cooler blue, while tiny grooves and ridges textured the surface as if the potter’s fingers had left their memory in the glaze. They were beautiful in the kind of unpretentious, tactile way that made you want to wrap both hands around them and keep them there. Steam curled from each mug as he divided the cider evenly, the scent of apple and spice unfurling richer now, threading through the cabin and settling over everything like a blanket.
Sloane took her time drying the last plate, sweeping the damp towel along the porcelain as the cabin quietly separated itself into different little bubbles: Kacper beside the stove, meticulous in his pouring like a master brewer, Katryna along the couch, 2 seconds from a food coma and half buried beneath Rocco, and Sloane, burgundy sweater pressed against the damp edge of the sink, cleaning dishes as if she needed to earn her keep. It was a silence that didn’t last for more than a minute, if that, but it was long enough that her mind, traitorous and self-loathing, started slipping back into that dark shadow. All the doubts, concerns, and fears were creeping around the edges like monsters shifting through the night just out of sight. With a practice soft of order, she draped the towel over the side of the sink, smoothing out any wrinkles so that it laid flat and perfectly centered to dry. When she finished, her gaze drifted toward the door as the thought of retreating tempted her better judgement.
For them… not her.
That’s what she had to tell herself. But before she could will her feet to move from the warm comfort that enveloped her in that cabin, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Something else rose up in her chest, something that made her breath catch, something she didn’t know how to categorize or label. She cleared her throat, taking the additional moment to tuck her wandering thoughts neatly back into the shadows as she dried her hands with the edge of the towel, then carefully unraveled the sleeves of her sweater until they rested loose and warm around her wrists.
By the time Sloane had finished drying the last dish, he was already turning back toward her. He held one mug out first, offering it to her with both warmth and care, the steam ghosting between them in pale ribbons. Once she took it, he grabbed the second mug and carried it over to Katryna, who had managed to sprawl across one side of the couch in a way that suggested she had no intention of moving anytime soon. Rocco was draped half across her legs like a particularly heavy blanket, and she made a quiet, appreciative hum when he handed her the cider. There was plenty of room left beside her, an open stretch of cushion warm from the firelight and softened by blankets, but Kacper didn’t even look at it for too long, it felt like it would be… kinder, for Sloane to have the spot, like she wasn’t an insider joining them, like she belonged. He just took his own mug and settled into the armchair diagonal from them, one ankle hooked over his knee, the ceramic cradled between his hands as the cabin exhaled around them into something golden and calm.
Sloane’s smile grew like a small weight was lifted with the simple gesture. She reached out, taking the warm cider gingerly in both hands. There was a fraction of a second where the tips of her fingers grazed his, but before she’d allow either of them to notice, the mug was already cupped between both of her palms and out of Kacper’s reach. She trailed behind him toward the living room, unable to muffle the quiet laugh that escaped at the sight of Katryna happily stuck beneath Rocco and half melted into the sofa. Her pace slowed, hovering at the edge of the room as if crossing the invisible threshold was another hurdle she didn’t quite know how to conquer or where she fit.
It was difficult not to notice the way Kacper didn’t hesitate to drift over toward the armchair, leaving the spot opposite Kat open and available on the couch. She hesitated a second before taking a step forward, but then her gaze drifted over toward the hearth and Onyx. The small black kitten sat surprisingly patient, waiting for her to return to him with big round eyes and a slightly judgemental expression like the cat was far wiser than he had any right to be. She almost laughed as she changed course and redirected herself toward the small creature. Sloane lowered herself to her knees with an effortless sort of poise that showed a practice art of navigating the world in skirts and dresses for most of her life. Once she was seated on the warm wooden floor, she adjusted until her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She hardly had a moment to get settled before Onyx rose from the pillow, stretching with one paw extended toward her, then another, until the small mass of black fur had turned her skirt into his own hammock and promptly curled back up into a ball.
Kacper had barely settled into the armchair before his attention snagged on her again, helplessly and without permission, following the soft drift of her movement as she hovered at the edge of the room and then quietly chose the floor instead. Something in him eased at the sight, at the graceful way she lowered herself beside the fire, at the way Onyx immediately claimed her lap like there had never been any question of where he belonged, at how naturally she seemed to fit there in the warm amber light with the kitten tucked into the folds of her skirt and the cider cradled in her hands. She looked less like a guest and more like something out of one of the stories she’d just confessed to loving, all soft edges and firelight and a kind of fragile peace he almost didn’t want to breathe too hard around. His smile came without thought, small and genuine and lingering as he watched Onyx curl back into himself with the smug certainty of a creature who knew he’d won.
Then Opal spotted the injustice.
The little cat trotted across the room with sudden, offended purpose, white paws nearly silent against the floorboards as she made a beeline for Sloane like a lady storming into a parlor to demand proper attention. She wound around her in quick, tight circles, purring so loudly it was almost comical, rubbing her face insistently against Sloane’s calves and the side of her hip before finally rearing up with both front paws braced delicately on her thigh. Her chin tipped up, blue eyes fixed on Sloane’s face with shameless entitlement, and then she let out a pointed little meow that sounded suspiciously like an accusation. Kacper snorted into his mug, shaking his head as he slouched a little deeper into the armchair, amusement curling warm and easy through his chest. “They’re both shameless,” he said, voice low with fond disbelief as his gaze flicked between the jealous white cat and the black kitten already asleep in her lap. “Not a single ounce of dignity between them.”
Sloane shook her head, disregarding his comments as she carefully set down her mug on the ground beside her to free up her hands. "You deserve love too," she muttered affectionately as she gently scooped up the determined little kitten and promptly cradled her in her arms like she had with Onyx before dinner. Once Opal had settled, curling into her own little ball against the soft warmth of her fuzzy burgundy sweater, Sloane reached back out toward the mug. She turned it slowly along the hardwood floor until the handle was angled toward her, then slipped her fingers around it and brought it to her lips. After blowing on the warm liquid once or twice, she took a sip. It was delicious, tasting like autumn in a mug. The most dangerous part was she couldn't even taste the alcohol… which she made a point not to drink more than one cup full.
After letting the silence sit comfortably for a minute or two, and her drink slowly dwindled to less than half, Sloane exhaled softly and set the cup aside. "So… was it just Pandora's box? Or Were you wanting the highlights since I arrived this past summer?" She didn't look up, not yet. No matter how she painted it, the topic wasn't a particularly happy one, but it was the reason she was there. They invited her under the pretense of sharing information, she couldn't very well hide from it or resend her promise. The tip of her thumb lightly tapped against the handle of the mug before she finally looked up, allowing her gaze to drift between the siblings. "It's not coffee but... I did give my word that I would answer your questions."
Kacper let the question settle for a moment instead of jumping to fill it. The fire cracked softly across the room, a low, steady pulse beneath the quiet, and he lifted his mug to his mouth while he thought, letting the cider roll warm across his tongue. It had cooled just enough to drink without burning, still rich with apple and spice, the scent of it curling up beneath his nose as he stared into the amber surface for a beat too long. When he finally spoke, his voice came lower than before, gentled by the hour and the weight of what she was offering. “Seems like this place has a lot of history,” he said, gaze drifting from the mug to the firelight dancing over the floorboards. A quiet breath left him, more measured than weary. “Better be anything important that we’ve missed. Not just the Pandora shit, if you don’t mind.”
His eyes shifted then, catching briefly on Katryna where she’d gone still on the couch, her face turned toward the hearth, the glow gilding the thoughtful line of her brow while Rocco slept heavy across her legs. Something in Kacper’s expression tightened, not fear exactly, but focus, the sort that sharpened him from the inside out. He took another sip, set the mug down against the arm of the chair, and leaned forward just a little, forearms braced on his knees. “I like knowing what I’m getting into fully,” he continued, the words simple and plain in a way that made them land harder. “So… why is that River guy so determined to train us like this?” His gaze found hers and held there, steady and intent.
"From what I know… Camp was always intended to be a place where we train. Safe, in theory. Demigods don’t have the easiest lives and rarely make it past thirty," Sloane answered his question simply, with the facts as she knew it. Then she sighed as whatever light was once on her face melted away with the weight of everything she was about to relive. "Alright." She nodded her head slowly and took one last sip of her cider. She set the mug down on the ground beside her with a soft clink, then shifted gently, setting Opal down in her lap beside Onyx. Both of the cats curled into one another, creating a warm, purring yin yang against the plain of floral fabric.
Sloane wet her lips as the tips of her fingers ran along her temples and tucked loose hair back behind her ears. "Where do I start?" she whispered, the question more rhetorical and for herself as she mentally catalogued various events into what felt like the easiest order to digest. "Ummm… Well, I don’t know much about what happened before my brother and I arrived." Once she started, her gaze never lifted higher than the legs of the coffee table, often settling on the sleeping cats, the tears in her tights, or the small bit of amber liquid growing cold in her mug.
"The previous leader—Ajax, son of Zeus—had become lax in his duties, from what I’ve gathered. Camp was a lot more… camp-like. Lots of parties and drama, not much training. And his sister, Alex—" Sloane’s eyes widened briefly as her brows rose and her head tilted to the side slightly. "—caused a lot of problems. At some point—I’m not entirely sure why—she killed another camper. A daughter of Hades." She paused for a second, letting the first bombshell drop and settle before continuing. "Then there was some sort of war… Something to do with Hades. I don’t know. I’m not sure if it had to do with his daughter’s death or if it was a long time coming. I only know what I’ve gathered from the more seasoned campers and even they don’t fully seem to know."
Sloane idly bounced her foot while stroking Opal in a slow, grounding rhythm. "It was sometime shortly after my brother and I arrived that the entirety of camp was taken to Alex’s trial. She was found innocent—somehow—and permitted to return to camp... Everything after that kind of spiraled into soap opera territory." She sighed softly, nodding her head slowly as if making a mental tally of every occurrence. "There were a lot of fights. One where Alex almost killed another girl—Andy." There was a pause as she tried to figure out how to dive further into any of that, but opening the can of worms that was the Ajax-Alex-Mason-Andy chaos was an entirely separate conversation that would take more time, more alcohol, and someone more versed in that whole situation than herself. "After that, Ajax and Alex left camp. I’m not sure how being murderous and violent got them a one way trip to Olympus. I guess Zeus bullshit. I don’t really know."
"Everything kind of reached its breaking point not long after that when…" Sloane’s voice trailed off, gaze fixed on the golden glow of the fire painted across the floor. She mulled various words around her mouth, deciding how much she wanted to share or keep close to the chest before sighing. "When... A friend of mine, Liam, nearly killed my brother." The sentence filled the silence in slow, measured beats, landing with a weight everything before that moment lacked. The heaviness in her tone wasn’t around her brother dying, but in the frayed, almost pained way she said friend. Rocco’s head snapped up from Katryna’s lap with a sad sort of whine at the mention of Liam’s name. The sound hit Sloane in the chest like a dagger. She tucked her lips between her teeth, biting back whatever might have spilled out if she didn’t keep it reined in.
She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could keep the emotions and pain suppressed beneath her ribcage where no one could see. "Poseidon, and a handful of other Gods, came to camp and ended it before it became deadly. He had a lot to say about how camp had spiraled out of control, lost its purpose, and how Zeus had failed." Her fingers rapped against her bicep as tension slowly settled across her shoulders, tightening her expression, and making her body go rigid. "He said we needed a lesson in discipline..."
Sloane could feel herself growing restless. She wanted to pace, to shift how she sat every other minute, or just get up and leave… If it wasn’t from the warm weight of sleeping kittens in her lap she might have. But she gave them her word. That meant something. The tension was visible along her throat as she swallowed and drew in a deep breath. "Our punishment was going through these… trials? We were forced to face our deepest fears, secrets, or traumas in an illusion in front of the whole camp." She clicked her tongue and her arms tightened across her chest. "Poseidon said Liam’s judgement was clouded… because of me. So, he made me go first…" She nodded her head slowly as the images she had tried to erase from her mind came flooding back: Rocco dead on the ground in front of her, Sylas compelling Liam to slit his own throat, and blood… so much blood.
Her eyes snapped shut, right hand raising to pinch the bridge of her nose as she tried to shove the memory back into the recesses of her mind before it lingered and seared itself into the back of her eyelids. "Things… calmed down after that." Rather than dwelling, Sloane forced herself to continue, keeping her eyes closed for a moment longer as she attempted to mentally get herself back on track. "Poseidon sent his son, Nick, to lead us in Zeus’s absence. But he was only here for a day… Maybe two before Pandora’s box."
It was only then that Sloane’s arms unlaced themselves from across her chest. Her hands pressed against the ground on either side of her as she sat a little more upright. "It happened in the middle of the night…" she began, trying to paint the picture best she could from her own experiences and what she heard others went through. "It felt like an earthquake. But it was like all hell was unleashed on camp. There were monsters everywhere, natural disasters… I don’t even know everything that actually happened. I didn’t make it out of my door before a harpy scooped me up. I was banged around the forest before finally getting free out over the lake. I broke my wrist from the fall… Then there was a dragon—I wish I was kidding—" She held up her hands in surrender, knowing how crazy it all sounded. "It got a hold of me at some point, dropped me in the middle of the field which was swarming with monsters."
There was a long pause as Sloane didn’t really stare at anything, getting that far off sort of look in her eyes. She could tell them both the truth, about how the box was a gift from her mother, how it was all her fault for giving it to her brother, how they should stay far away from a daughter of chaos if they knew what was good for them… She tried it once on Kacper and it didn’t work. But maybe... maybe with Pandora’s box to back her up, he would listen. She humored the thought for longer than she should have, long enough that the silence was growing heavy and tense, asking for someone to break it with a question she couldn’t answer.
But the fear of losing more friends, or potentially selfish self-preservation kept the truth locked away. That was enough confessions for one day. "I was the one who closed the box," she added, because that was a fact that half of the camp already knew about, one she couldn’t hide even if she wanted to. "I was attacked in the process, I don’t know by what but… it didn’t kill me," she added with a weak shrug and a halfhearted laugh.
"Camp was basically destroyed… Nick and two others were found dead. A couple others left camp afterwards." Sloane’s voice had grown heavy and tired. There had not been a single day since that fateful night that the events of Pandora’s box or Liam’s absence didn’t cloud her mind. The weight of it all had shifted from a burden to something she had learned to carry with her every day, a part of her that she didn’t know how to remove even if someone offered to help lift it for her. While camp had granted her a sense of independence, the emotional toll nearly made her wish for simpler times of private schools and Sylas’s cruelty when their father’s back was turned.
"That was three months ago. Most of us have been healing or rebuilding camp since," she concluded. Sloane exhaled, letting the knot that was holding her together finally unraveled. Her poise of strength and control released, and her shoulders rolled forward slightly like she was allowed to relax after standing at attention. There was a part of her that still remained closed and guarded, deep inside her chest like a clenched fist, but that part of her had to hold on until she was back in her cabin… Until she was alone. She refused to let herself fall to pieces in front of him twice in one day… Or twice ever if she had anything to say about it.
Then, for the first time since she started, Sloane looked up and met each of their gazes… uncertain of what she would find staring back at her.
The room seemed to hold its breath as Sloane finished, the fire crackling low and steady, the only sound that dared fill the space she’d left behind. Kacper hadn’t moved for most of it, barely even blinked, his mug long forgotten in his hands as the cider cooled untouched. Each piece of her story had settled into him slowly, heavily, like stones dropped into deep water, and by the end of it something in his expression had shifted, sharpened, unsettled, pulled taut beneath the surface. When she said she had closed the box, his gaze flicked to her properly then, not with disbelief, but with something quieter and far more dangerous. Awe threaded through worry, admiration tangled with something that looked almost like fear on her behalf. His jaw tightened, a breath leaving him slow and unsteady as if he was still catching up to the reality of what she’d just handed them.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning his head toward Katryna like he needed to anchor himself to something familiar, something solid. “Kat… go home,” he said, the words low and firm, not harsh but carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t dismissal, it was instinct, protective and immediate, like if he could remove her from the board he could control at least one piece of the chaos Sloane had just described. But Katryna didn’t even hesitate. The pillow hit him square in the face with a dull thump, her aim perfect even from the couch.
“Absolutely not,” she shot back, voice edged but steady as she pushed herself upright, chin lifting in quiet defiance. “If you stay, I stay.” There was no room for argument in it, no softness to negotiate with, only certainty. Then her gaze slid to Sloane, something sharper flickering behind her eyes, newly protective in a way that mirrored her brother, just expressed differently. “And I’m not leaving her now,” she added, quieter but no less firm, her shoulders settling like the decision had already been made long before she spoke it aloud. “So… we’re staying.”
"You both should leave," Sloane argued with an almost startling level of calmness, quiet and finite like it was the only sane option. "You should leave, go back to your kind adoptive father, and forget all about this place… Before camp takes pieces of you too." While she was a daughter of discord, capable of surviving chaos even when it hurt, they were still untouched by any of it. The Gods' fury or the unfortunate side effects of proximity have been kind to them so far. But it was only a matter of time before hell came for them all once again and the best answer was not being here when it arrived. Sloane might have been stuck choosing between torments, but that didn’t mean they had to drag themselves along with her.
The words settled heavy in the room, but Katryna didn’t waver. Her hand stilled in Rocco’s fur, fingers pressing just a little tighter as she lifted her chin, exhaustion sharpening into something unyielding. “Not without you, like I said. You’ve been through enough, if you’re not leaving,” her gaze cut to Kacper, fierce and steady, “Then neither am I.” It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic, but it rooted itself in the floor like something that wouldn’t be moved, her decision already made before Sloane had even finished speaking. The firelight flickered across her face, catching in the hard line of her mouth, the quiet defiance that lived there.
Kacper made a rough, frustrated sound under his breath, dragging both hands down his face before shoving them back through his hair, gripping hard enough to pull. His chest felt tight, crowded with too many things at once, anger at the gods, at the camp, at the story she’d been forced to live through; something sharper at the thought of her standing alone in it, closing that damn box while everyone else broke around her. He stared at the floor for a beat, jaw clenched, trying to swallow it down, but it didn’t settle. When he finally looked up, it was with something raw still lingering behind his eyes, something that hadn’t quite smoothed back into his usual ease. “Fine.” The word came out sharper than he meant, his hands dropping back into his lap as he exhaled through his nose, quieter this time, steadier. “Then we stay.”
Sloane sighed, something defeated and worn, made of reluctant acceptance because there was nothing she could do… Nothing that she was comfortable doing. She wasn’t her brother. She couldn’t treat people like puppets and play with their minds, not without consent and circumstances more dire than her own failed warnings. Kat and Kacper were two sides of a coin… of a very stubborn and unyielding coin. Her gaze fell to the innocent balls of fur curled around one another her lap before letting her forehead rest in the palm of her hand in resignation.
Silence followed again, but it was different now, denser, threaded with understanding rather than uncertainty. Katryna’s attention drifted back to the fire, her brows knitting slowly as she replayed pieces of the story in her head, fitting them together in ways that didn’t quite sit right. Her fingers absently curled into Rocco’s fur as she stared into the flames, watching them bend and fold in on themselves. Then, after a beat, her lips parted, the name slipping out softer than the rest. “Alex…” she murmured, almost testing the shape of it, like it belonged somewhere just out of reach. Her expression tightened faintly, something flickering behind her eyes as if the name tugged on a thread within her mind.
She shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the fire, but her voice turned toward Sloane without fully looking at her. “Does… is Andy still at the camp?” The question came quieter, more careful, as if she already suspected the answer might matter more than she wanted it to. Across the room, Kacper hadn’t taken his eyes off Sloane again, the weight of everything she’d carried settling heavy in his chest, but at that he threw a sharp look at his sister.
Sloane’s brows furrowed slightly, catching the sidelong glance that spoke of something she was not privy to. The question about Andy, given everything she shared was… vexxing. But just as she never liked being put on the spot, poked and picked at until answering was her only form of relief, she wasn’t going to do that to Kat. "Yes. She is," she replied plainly with a small nod of her head. "She was—Oh, that’s right. You weren’t here yesterday. Umm…" Her head tilted back slightly, gaze lifting to the ceiling as she tried to recall any identifying moments to pick her out of the crowd during training. "She was like our psuedo leader after Pandora’s box." Then it dawned on her, something small but it might have been memorable enough to put a face to a name. "She was the one River had time his run… If that helps."
Kacper’s shoulders tightened the moment Kat went still, the shift subtle but immediate, like he felt something turning before it ever reached words. The silence stretched for several long minutes, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional sip of cider, until Katryna’s eyes fixed on the flames like she was watching something inside them move. “Sometimes,” she said suddenly, voice quiet enough to make the room feel smaller, “I have dreams—”
“No,” Kacper interrupted, sharp and fast, the word snapping out of him before he could soften it.
A single word cut through the room with an edged precision that stole Sloane’s attention. It was sharper and guarded unlike the secrets and uncertainties that had been laid bare throughout the day. It took her by surprise, like a door that had previously been open shutting abruptly without warning. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t let it show across her face, although there was a subtle rigidity that set in her spine and shoulders, like a cold chill had swept through the room and down her back.
But Kat went on as if he hadn’t spoken at all, her face cooling into something distant. “It was a warm and sunny summer day,” she said, voice cold, detached. “I could hear footsteps quietly crunching in leaves, so… seasons were changing. A soft breeze, cool, and I—I could see the cabins.” She shivered then, small but visible, while Kacper ground his teeth together so hard it was audible.
Katryna kept staring into the fire until the flames blurred into shapes that weren’t there. “There was a clearing, and… a woman, well, three women.” Her eyes finally raised to meet Sloane’s, blank in a way that was almost doll-like. “Andy, Alex, and the dead girl.” She shrugged one shoulder, loose and deceptive, then looked away as nausea flickered across her features. Her fingers tightened around her mug before she took another sip of cider, as if warmth could force the vision back down.
Kacper sat rigidly beside them, distress slowly giving way to resignation, his jaw still set but his eyes tired now. He hated this part. Hated the dreams, the way they touched Katryna and left her somewhere distant, somewhere he couldn’t follow. Kat’s voice softened as she looked back into the fire. “There have been more dreams, but I… I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but you shared so much, so… but I never understood that one, not until… well, now.” She trailed off, the unfinished thought lingering between them like smoke.
Sloane’s gaze had settled on Katryna, taking in her every word with an attentive silence. She had never heard of visions in dreams or knew what it meant, but the siblings were also her first experience around offspring of Hypnos. She was smart enough to know it was uncommon, if only because of Kacper’s reluctance to make the information known. Her hand idly stroked the cats’ backs, alternating between black and white fur as she let the truth sink in with the same sort of patience and reverence they offered her.
It was only when the silence had grown heavier than the confession that she finally inhaled softly and spoke. "There is some knowledge that is too dangerous for me to share. But I understand the gravity and risk of secrets more than most. I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’ve shared with me in confidence… You have my word." She held Kat’s gaze with a solemn sort of severity that gave credence to her words more than promises could. It was a shared glance that spoke of the burden of carrying secrets like the weight of the world on their shoulders. Sometimes having another person help with the load could make all the difference… and Sloane didn’t mind lending her strength where she could, regardless of how negligible it was.
"But your dream…" She carefully redirected the conversation back to Kat’s confession, but more importantly the vision laced within it. "It sounds accurate, for what I know." Sloane’s head lulled slightly to the side, brunette hair sweeping off her shoulder as she tried to recall Olympus like it had happened years, not months ago. "Andy testified at Alex’s trial and I recall her mentioning that she was the one who found Alex standing over Jennova’s dead body." She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "I’m not sure if it helps knowing your dream was likely correct but…" Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what else to say or if her confirmation would give any comfort. But for good or ill, Kat should know the truth.
Katryna’s shoulders eased by degrees, the tension in her spine unwinding as Sloane spoke. The firelight softened across her features, pulling her out of that distant place and back into the room, into herself. A small, almost shy smile found its way to her lips, fragile but real. “Thank you,” she said, voice quieter now, warmer, before flicking a pointed look at her brother. “Our… mentor told us we couldn’t tell anyone. Kacper’s just a stickler for rules sometimes.” She shook her head, the motion slow and tired, a breath slipping out like she’d been holding it too long.
Kacper made a rough, unattractive huff at that, dragging a hand down his face before turning toward Sloane. His expression had shifted again, the edges of it worn thin, something uneasy sitting just beneath the surface. “It’s not because I don’t trust you,” he said, the words coming out quick, almost urgent, like he needed them understood before anything else could settle in their place. His gaze held hers, steady but strained, the flicker of worry in it hard to miss. “I just… I don’t know what pissing off a godly parent looks like, and I don’t want her to be the one to find out.”
The last of it landed heavier than he intended. His shoulders dropped a fraction after, the fight leaking out of him as he looked away, jaw tightening before he exhaled slowly through his nose. He leaned back into the chair, hands folding loosely in his lap around his mug like he didn’t trust them to stay still otherwise.
"I understand," she replied quietly, her voice nearly lost beneath the crackle of the fire and the deafening silence that clung to the room like an unshakeable omen. Sloane was familiar with the wrath of the Gods, more than most. She knew the price and the mark it left behind. She also knew she had no right to feel… offput by the reluctance to be honest with her, not when she kept her own secrets close to her chest. Fear had a way of keeping lips sealed, even when the prospect of one single person knowing the truth was a godsend. It was different from wanting to preserve face. They were deep in a world with deities they could never claim to understand. Nothing was normal. Not for them.
Sloane struggled to hold Kacper’s gaze for more than a second, instead finding it easier to ground herself at the sight of Rocco fast asleep or looking out the window where the early night’s sky—night. Her eyes widened as she searched the walls of the cabin until she found a clock. Nearly eight o’clock. "It’s late… I should go."
Her gaze fell to the pair of cats still nestled together along her legs. Reluctantly, Sloane’s hands slipped beneath Onyx, gently prying him from the warmth of her lap. The small creature yawned, stretched his paws straight out, and gave her an annoyed little mew of protest. She gently set him down on the throw pillow that was still on the ground beside her, then did the same with Opal, guiding the pair to resume their nap together in the warm glow of the hearth.
After giving both of the kittens a kiss on the head, she stood up and carried her nearly empty mug over to the sink. She took a second to clean the cup, not bothering with filling the entire basin, but gave the ceramic a thorough rinse with a splash of soap before setting it aside to dry. Without a word, she grabbed the basket she brought with her, finding its weight significantly more manageable absent the food she brought. Her gaze drifted toward the sandwiches that still sat displayed on a plate, uneaten and forgotten in lieu of the grilled ribs and fresh made potato salad. The sight made a small twinge tug at her chest in a strange mixture of both embarrassment and gratitude.
She gravitated towards the door and set down the basket beside her bag. Sloane took her time carefully stepping into her boots, holding the shoe open as she slipped her one foot inside, and then did the same with the other. She crouched down with a learned sort of poise that was almost graceful in its movements and modesty, and slowly zipped her boots shut, snug around her ankles. After standing back upright, she grabbed her wool coat from where it hung beside the door and started pulling it back on, sliding her arms into the sleeves as her gaze found its way back to Rocco. "Time to go, buddy."
The dog groaned and stretched dramatically against Katryna’s legs before conceding and standing up with a big yawn. He gave his napping partner a parting lick to the cheek before jumping down from the couch. The pup took his sweet time crossing the room, stopping every few steps to yawn or stretch as he made his way to Sloane’s side with a lazy wag of his tail.
Katryna pushed herself up from the couch with a long, weary stretch, mimicking the dog, grinning at his cuteness, her joints popping softly after hours curled in warmth beside the fire. The movement tugged her oversized hoodie crooked over one shoulder, and she absently fixed it while looking down into the empty ceramic mug still cradled loosely in her hands. “Yeah,” she sighed, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m gonna head back too. Need to start a fire, get the place warmed up before I freeze to death in my sleep.” She shuffled past Rocco on her way to the kitchen, pausing long enough to bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head. The dog’s tail thumped lazily in response, eyes half-lidded with sleepy contentment.
Kacper stood a moment later, quieter than he had been earlier in the night. Something heavy still sat behind his eyes after everything Sloane had shared, a tension he hadn’t fully shaken loose no matter how much easier the conversation had become afterward. He watched her pull on her coat, watched the practiced neatness of her movements, and the thought of her walking back alone through the cold scraped at him harder than it should have. “I’ll walk you back,” he said easily, already reaching for his own coat hanging by the door, though his gaze never drifted from Sloane long enough to acknowledge anyone else. The words sounded casual, but there was a quiet insistence beneath them, something protective he no longer bothered trying to disguise.
"It’s ok. It’s not—" Sloane tried to argue, but he was already pulling on his coat with that severe stubbornness she was quickly learning was rooted deeper than any tree. She sighed softly, conceding only because of how ridiculously close her cabin was. If she lived halfway across camp she might have put up a bigger fight, but after everything, she was too tired… mentally and physically.
Kat lingered by the sink, rinsing out her mug beneath warm water while softly humming to herself under her breath, giving them both the sort of privacy that only siblings understood how to manufacture without comment. Steam curled around her fingers as she set the cleaned mug carefully beside the others to dry. Then she glanced back over her shoulder, tired but smiling softly all the same. “See you in the morning.” The fire crackled low behind them, casting gold across the cabin.
Sloane slipped her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the empty basket in one hand. She took a step toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Kat with a small smile that mirrored hers. "Thank you… For trusting me enough to share." Two fingers raised from the handle of the basket in a small wave. "See you tomorrow." With one last deep inhale to prepare for the cold, she opened the door letting Rocco run outside ahead of her, then stepped out behind him, grimacing as frigid wind stole her breath.
End of part 2.
