Inside, the cabin was a world apart from the storm. Not warm — yet — but sheltered, dim, and promising. A fireplace crouched against one wall, an armchair angled nearby as if waiting for its occupant to return. The single bed was pushed up opposite, a table and two chairs between. The faint smell of pine and dust clung to the air.
I eased her down onto the bed. She cradled her arm against her chest, lips white with pain. Wet clothes clung to her, dripping onto the quilt.
"You need to change before you freeze," I said, tugging off her boots and coat.
She nodded toward a set of drawers at the foot of the bed. I rummaged until I found sweatpants, a sweater, thick socks — comfort folded neatly in cotton. I set them beside her and turned away to give her privacy.
A few minutes later came an impatient sigh. "I can't get the sweater on."
I turned back. Her jaw was set tight, but her good hand fumbled helplessly at the fabric. Carefully, I helped ease the sweater over her head and shoulders, conscious of every brush of my fingers.
"What's your name?" I asked, trying to anchor the moment in something normal.
"Amelia." Her eyes, sharp despite the pain, met mine. "You?"
"Brandon."
I crouched, slipping socks over her cold feet.
"You should change too," she murmured, giving me a pointed look.
I dug a spare sweater and socks from my pack and ducked into the bathroom. By the time I came out, Amelia was kneeling stubbornly at the hearth, trying to coax a fire to life with one hand.
"My car's at the trailhead," I said. "Once this lets up, I'll drive you to the hospital."
She let out a short, humorless laugh, nodding toward the window where snow hurled itself against the glass. "Neither of us is going anywhere in that."
"But you need a doctor. If the wound —"
"It's stopped bleeding," she interrupted, examining her arm with the coolness of someone used to handling herself. "The storm will kill us faster than infection."
She wasn't wrong. Still, worry gnawed at me.
"Then let me help."
"Fine. Start with this fire." She shuffled aside. The logs and kindling were already stacked, waiting. She handed me the lighter, and within minutes the flames licked to life, orange glow spreading across the room.
"There's a medical kit in the kitchen," she said once the fire caught. "Top cabinet."
I fetched it and pulled a chair to the table where she'd sat down. Gently, I slid her injured arm free from her sweater and unwrapped the soaked bandages. My stomach lurched at the sight, but I forced myself steady.
The bleeding had stopped, at least.
"This'll sting," I warned before pressing alcohol to the wound. She hissed through her teeth but didn't flinch away. Stubborn to the bone. I cleaned and wrapped it again, hands clumsy but determined.
When I finished, she leaned back on the bed, forearm draped over her face, breathing carefully through the pain.
The fire crackled, throwing shifting shadows on the walls. I draped our wet clothes over the chairs near the hearth and raided her kitchen. A couple of tins of soup, half a loaf of bread —bare bones, but better than nothing. When I brought it over, she'd already dozed off.
"Amelia," I said softly, shaking her shoulder. "You need to eat."
She stirred, sitting up with effort, hand outstretched for the bowl.
"I should help you," I said, handing her bread instead.
Her mouth curved faintly. "Practical." She let me spoon her the soup, weak but still faintly amused. After, I gave her water and painkillers from the kit. She swallowed them and sank back down.
"Thank you," she whispered, as if the words cost her something.
I only nodded. "Sleep."
She did.
I sat in the armchair, half-dozing, until the fire died low and the cold nudged me awake. Amelia stirred faintly, murmuring my name. Relief swept through me so hard my knees almost buckled.
"How's the pain?" I asked.
"Bad," she admitted, then gave a small laugh. "But better than before."
She was probably downplaying it. I wished I could carry her straight to a hospital, but outside the storm howled louder, heavier, relentless.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I can't do more."
Her eyes flickered open, calm and steady despite the exhaustion. "Don't apologize. None of this is your fault."
By the time she drifted off again, I'd cleaned the kitchen and rekindled the fire. The armchair wasn't made for sleeping, but it was better than the floor. I sank back into it, the storm raging outside, her quiet breathing steady inside.
For the first time all day, I let myself exhale.