The mountain air grows colder as we climb. I clutch my bags to my chest, focusing on Dash’s back as he leads us up the narrow path. My heart thuds against my ribs, my mind still spinning, though the rhythm of walking starts to pull me out of my haze.

Marriage. I keep rolling the word around in my head, waiting for it to feel real. I never wanted this—especially not with a man I barely know. But we didn’t have a choice, not after hearing what the Sovereign Accord did to the last camp they visited.

The self-appointed saviors of “order and stability,” as if they were the only ones who knew how to rebuild society. They were more like a twisted army with medieval sensibilities, seeing themselves as “worthy” rulers and treating anyone else as less. And apparently, in their infinite wisdom, they’d come to the conclusion that unmarried women were fair game, their “unattached” status making them just another resource to be claimed.

Scouts had caught word that the Accord had recently started pushing for more proof from the camps they visited. Witnesses, living arrangements, every detail scrutinized as they pressed each so-called couple. It wasn’t enough just to say you were married; you had to be seen living the part. And their version of “moral integrity” meant that as long as a woman was attached to a man, she was off-limits—a man’s “property,” and therefore safe. As for everyone else… I didn’t want to think about what that meant.

The lean-to appears suddenly out of the shadows, pressed up against the cliffside, barely visible in the dim light. The whole place is rugged, worn, like it’s part of the mountain itself. Dash doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, swinging the door open and waiting for me to step inside.

I duck through, and the familiar cold settles over me again, making me shiver. It’s not much, but it’s solid—shelves along one wall, a small stove in the corner, and a bed piled with blankets. The only light is the small solar lantern we carried from camp, casting everything in warm, soft shadows. I briefly wonder how he got a stove like that here. Did he make it? Find it? I shake my head as I realize that we have more pressing matters.

“Put your things down here,” Dash says, motioning to a low shelf he built himself. He doesn’t look at me, instead moving toward the stove and checking the firewood pile. His movements are methodical, steady. I take a breath and set my bags down, my hands lingering over the worn fabric for a moment longer than necessary.

The silence feels strange. I almost wish he’d say something, anything, to break it. But I don’t know what I’d say back. I don’t even know what to feel. This is all happening too fast, like the ground shifted under me and I haven’t found my footing.

He glances over, noticing my stillness. “It’s late,” he says quietly. “There’s no fire tonight, but it’ll warm up in the morning.”

“Okay,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. I pull my sleep clothes from my bag, turning my back to him as I change. I can feel him across the room, moving as quietly as I am, the air filled with the faint rustle of fabric. When I finally turn back, he’s already in bed, lying on his side with his back to me.

“We’re not…” The words come out in a rush. My face heats, and I wonder if he understands what I mean.

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“I know,” he replies, his voice a low rumble, quick and steady, like he’d expected me to say it.

I hesitate, every nerve in my body alert, telling me this is wrong. Or right. I can’t decide.

I don’t know much about Dash. The man is closer to being selectively mute than anyone I’ve met. Today alone, he’s spoken more words to me than in the entire eight months I’ve known him in this camp. But I trust my instincts, and I’ve never gotten any sense of danger from him—only steadiness. If I have to trust someone with this charade, he’s the only one I’d choose.

Slowly, I climb in beside him, the blankets cold against my skin. I pull them up, trying to get comfortable, but the cold seeps into me, making me shiver.

Dash must notice because, after a moment, he shifts, his arm reaching out, pulling me closer. I stiffen at the contact, but his warmth is almost enough to make me forget my confusion. My cold toes brush his leg, and he tenses.

“Geez,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble. “Your feet are like ice.”

I can’t help it—a small, shaky laugh escapes me. “Sorry. You’re…warm.”

He huffs, pulling the blankets tighter around us. “Just don’t freeze me out.”

I let out a small, shaky laugh and settle against him, feeling his warmth seep into my skin, soothing the chill in my bones. We lie there in silence, his breathing steady and even beside me. Minutes pass, and the quiet stretches on, pressing down on me like a weight.

My mind races, the words I haven’t said churning just under the surface. I’ve spent years helping others process their trauma as a therapist, getting people to open up about their deepest fears and losses. It’s always been a strange comfort—a purpose that kept me grounded, even when the world fell apart around us. But here, lying beside a man who’s practically a stranger, I’m the one who’s wound up and second-guessing every thought.

A few more minutes pass, and my fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, my nerves getting the best of me. It’s easier to talk than to sit here in silence. At least for me. “You know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I think you’ve said more to me today than you have the entire time I’ve known you.”

I feel him tense, just slightly, before he lets out a soft huff of what might be amusement. “Guess so.”

His answer is short, simple. And it only makes my curiosity burn brighter.

I press my lips together, debating whether to keep going. I’m used to people spilling their guts around me, even if they don’t mean to. Being the “mental health specialist” invites it. Not Dash, though. He doesn’t spill anything, not the way everyone else does.

Another moment of silence stretches between us, and I decide to try again. “So…does this mean you’re going to talk to me more now that we’re sharing space?”

He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around me. “Maybe.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. His replies are so sparse, like he’s rationing words along with supplies.

There’s a pause, long enough that I start to wonder if he’s going to say more. But then, in a tone softer than I expected, he says, “I’ll try.”

I blink, turning my head slightly to catch a glimpse of his profile in the dim light. His face is unreadable, calm, like he’s always had this steady patience that I can’t quite wrap my head around. It’s strange—comforting, even—but it’s also unnerving. I’m used to seeing what’s going on inside people, and with him, there’s only…quiet.

“It must be nice,” I say quietly, letting the words slip out before I can stop myself. “Having a kind of peace in your own mind.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and it’s the closest I’ve seen to a real reaction from him. “Not as peaceful as you’d think.”

The words catch me off guard, making my breath hitch. He doesn’t explain, and I don’t press. But the way he said it—it’s enough to remind me that there’s a depth to him I haven’t seen yet, layers he doesn’t let just anyone in on.

For a moment, I consider saying more, telling him what’s in my head, how even as I help others in the camp, I’m not sure if I know how to help myself anymore. But I hold back, settling deeper into the warmth of his arm around me. Maybe, in time, we’ll get there. For now, it’s enough just to lie here in the quiet, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and knowing that somehow, we’re in this together.