The outcrop offered partial shelter—a shallow overhang that blocked the worst of the wind. I shrugged off my pack andstarted digging, carving out a space in the snow where we could set up the tent.
"Help me with the tent," I shouted. "We need to anchor this or it'll blow away."
We worked fast, fingers clumsy with cold, fighting the wind for every inch of progress. The tent was small—a two-person ultralight I'd grabbed from storage, designed for emergencies rather than comfort. When we finally got it up, it looked pathetically fragile against the fury of the storm.
"Inside," I ordered. "Now."
We crawled through the flap, and the noise dropped—not silent, but muffled, the thin fabric walls creating an illusion of safety. I zipped the entrance closed and turned on my headlamp, casting harsh shadows across the cramped space. Everything that didn’t generate heat stayed outside.
James was shivering. Hard.
"Your outer layer," I said, already reaching for his jacket. "It's soaked through. Take it off."
"I'm f-fine—"
"You're showing signs of early hypothermia. Take it off."
He didn't argue again. His fingers fumbled with the zipper, too clumsy to manage, and I pushed his hands away and did it myself. The jacket was heavy with melted snow, and his mid-layer wasn't much better—damp, useless for insulation.
"This too." I tugged at his fleece. "All of it. Down to your base layer."
His eyebrows rose despite the shivering. "Are you trying to get me naked?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive." I was already stripping off my own wet layers, cataloging what we had to work with. One sleeping bag—mine. His had been strapped to the outside of his pack, and I'd watched it blow away in the first gust of wind. Thermal blankets. Chemical heat packs.
Not enough. Not nearly enough for a storm this bad.
"Body heat," I said, forcing my voice to stay clinical. Professional. "It's the only way we're both getting through this."
James had stopped shivering, which should have been a good sign but wasn't—could mean his body was giving up on generating warmth. I activated two chemical heat packs and shoved them into his hands.
"Hold these against your chest. Armpits if you can manage it."
He obeyed, watching me with those steady brown eyes as I unzipped the sleeping bag and spread it flat. The tent was barely big enough for us to lie side by side, our shoulders brushing the walls.
"Come here," I said.
He didn't move. "Lumi—"
"James. Get in the sleeping bag. Now."
Something shifted in his expression. He crawled across the narrow space and lay down on the unzipped bag, and I lay down facing him, pulling the other half over us both. Then I wrapped the thermal blankets around the outside, creating a cocoon of insulation.
The cold hit me immediately—his body was like ice pressed against mine, stealing heat faster than I could generate it. I gritted my teeth and pulled him closer.
"Arms around me," I instructed. "Tight. We need as much contact as possible."
His arms came around my waist, hesitant at first, then tighter when I didn't pull away. I pressed my palms flat against his chest, feeling his heart beat through the thin fabric of his base layer. Too slow. Sluggish.
"Stay with me," I murmured. "Talk to me. Keep your brain engaged."
"What should I talk about?"
"Anything. Tell me about Montana."
He laughed weakly. "Montana. Okay. Montana is... big. Lots of sky. Lots of cows." His words were slightly slurred, but he kept going. "My family has a ranch. Fourth generation. My dad wanted me to take it over someday."
"But you came to Alaska instead."
