Her head snaps up at the sound of her name. Hope and confusion war on her face.
"My radio's working?" She rises, moving toward it. "They're looking for me already?"
"Your guide reported you missing when you didn't return," I say, translating the broadcast. "The search has begun but is suspended due to dangerous conditions."
"The storm you control," she says, no longer a question.
I incline my head slightly, neither confirming nor denying. The radio goes silent again, its brief moment of life extinguished as my attention shifts.
"Will you let me go?" she asks, her voice steady despite the fear-scent that rises from her skin. "When the storm ends?"
"Yes."
The word surprises me as much as her. I'd made no such decision until this moment. Yet I find I have no desire to keep her prisoner, despite the peculiar pull she exerts. She doesn't belong here. Her warmth, her very presence are discordant notes in my winter symphony.
Relief softens her features, followed immediately by wariness. She doesn't fully trust my answer. Wise.
"Thank you," she says regardless, finishing her meal. "For saving me. For this." She gestures to the food, the fire, the shelter.
Gratitude is an uncomfortable gift. I turn away, watching snow swirl beyond the window rather than face the warmth in her eyes. Humans and their emotions, so quick to form, so freely given.
"Night comes," I say, noting the deepening blue beyond the white. "You should rest."
"And you?" she asks.
"I'll sleep later," I say, unwilling to appear too human or too monstrous. The truth lies somewhere between—I need rest, but not as much as mortals.
She glances at the single bed, then back to me. "Where will you sleep, then?"
"I'll rest here," I gesture to the chair near the fire, though I'll move it further from the flames when my turn comes.
Her heart rate increases again. Calculating options, risks. The cabin offers no privacy, no separate spaces beyond the crude bathroom. One bed, one room, one long night ahead.
"That chair doesn't look comfortable," she says finally.
"I've slept in worse places."
A small smile touches her lips. "You sound like a character from a sci-fi movie."
The reference means nothing to me, but her smile creates an unexpected warmth that has nothing to do with the fire. Disturbing.
She rises, wrapping the fur more securely around herself. Her other clothes still aren't fully dry—the fire I maintain is sufficient for human survival but not strong enough to dry thick winter gear quickly. My weakness, my limitation.
"I'm going to..." She gestures toward the bathroom.
I nod, turning away to give what privacy I can in the confined space. When the door closes behind her, I allow my glamour to thin slightly. Relief floods through me as the antlers expand a few inches, the pressure on my skull easing. The mask rises closer to the surface, eye sockets widening to improve my night vision. Just for a moment, just a small release of the constant restraint.
The bathroom door creaks. I clamp down hard on the glamour, wincing as the magic binds tight again. Too slow—her sharp intake of breath tells me she glimpsed something of my true form in the dim light.
"Sorry," she says, though she has nothing to apologize for. "I didn't mean to... startle you."
Interesting choice of words. Not 'I didn't mean to see' or 'I didn't mean to intrude.' She apologizes for my reaction, not her observation.
"It's fine," I say, voice rougher than intended. The glamour still settling, throat adjusting from true form to human approximation.
She moves to the bed, still watching me from the corner of her eye. Not fear exactly, but heightened awareness. The fur she wears leaves her shoulders bare, freckles scattered across skin flushed from the warmth of the cabin. I look away before my gaze can linger inappropriately.
"We should discuss sleeping arrangements," she says, practical even in this awkward moment.
