The trust in her voice does something to my chest, makes it feel tight and warm and strange.
I take point, navigating by instinct and memory, leading the group through increasingly difficult terrain. The rain makes everything treacherous, mud sucking at our feet, branches whipping at faces. I clear the path, breaking smaller obstacles, steadying people when they slip.
Orla stays close behind me, never complaining, never faltering, even when I see her wince as thorns catch at her expensive fabric.
The ranger station emerges from the gloom like a gift from the gods. Small. Wooden. Definitely old and possibly condemned, but it has walls and a roof and that's all that matters.
"Inside. Now." I herd everyone through the door, counting heads to make sure no one got lost in the storm.
The space is cramped, maybe meant for two rangers at most, now packed with fifteen soaked corporate employees. The instructor immediately starts organizing, getting people out of wet outer layers, checking for injuries.
I do a quick assessment of the structure. Roof is mostly solid, though there's a leak in the far corner. Fireplace is functional, still has some old wood stacked beside it. Windows are intact.
"We need fire," I announce, already moving toward the old wood pile. "And we need to get the wettest people warm first, or hypothermia will set in within the hour."
I have fire going in minutes, my survival training overriding the complicated protocols the humans have about "please" and "thank you" and "asking permission before breaking furniture for kindling."
The instructor doesn't complain when I snap apart an old chair for fuel. He's too busy trying to get everyone organized, checking who's coldest, who needs attention first.
Chad huddles near the fire, teeth chattering, his bravado completely stripped away by cold and fear.
I notice Orla standing apart from the group, arms wrapped around herself, her whole body trembling in a way that sends alarm shooting through my gut. She's soaked through, her suit offering zero protection, her lips taking on a faint blue tint that makes every protective instinct I possess roar to life.
I move to her side, cutting through the chaos of the main room where others huddle around the fire, their wet clothes steaming in the heat. I place one hand on her shoulder, gently, despite every instinct screaming at me to just throw her over my shoulder and carry her somewhere warm. She's ice cold even through the soaked fabric of her ridiculous corporate armor. The chill radiating from her body sends a jolt of alarm through my chest.
"Little Manager," I say quietly, pitching my voice low and intimate so only she can hear me over the crackling fire and the murmur of cold, frightened humans. I lean in closer, letting my bulk shield her from the others' view. "You need to get warm. Now."
"I'm fine." Her jaw clenches visibly against the violent chattering of her teeth, that stubborn chin lifting even as her whole frame trembles like a leaf in a storm. She tries to straighten her posture, to project that unshakeable corporate confidence, but her body betrays her with every uncontrollable shiver. "Other people are worse off than me. I can wait my turn. There's a system, a priority order based on?—"
Stubborn. Infuriating. Absolutely perfect in her refusal to acknowledge her own limits.
"There is a back room." I gesture toward the door at the rear of the station. "Probably old storage. Private. You need to get out of those wet clothes before you freeze."
"There's nothing else for me to wear afterward." Her voice wavers, uncertainty breaking through her usual crisp efficiency. "I can't just sit naked in a storage room all night."
I step closer, closing the distance between us, letting my presence fill the small space. "You will not need clothes, Little Manager. I will keep you warm."
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the moment she understands what I'm offering. Heat floods her cheeks despite the cold, her pupils dilating.
"Thraka, we can't just—" She pauses mid-protest, her voice trembling from more than just the bone-deep cold that has settled into her very marrow. Her eyes dart toward the closed door, then back to me, conflict written across every sharp, beautiful angle of her face. I can practically see the calculations running behind those intelligent eyes, weighing propriety against survival, corporate protocol against the primal need to stop shaking.
"You are shaking so hard I can hear your bones rattle. Your lips are blue. This is not negotiation. This is survival." I lean closer, pitching my voice to that rumble I know affects her. "Unless you want me to strip you in front of Chad?"
That gets her moving.
The back room is small and cramped, every inch coated in a thick layer of dust that speaks of years of neglect. Forgotten equipment clusters in the corners, old clipboards with curling pages, boxes of supplies that probably expired during the previous administration, a broken mop bucket that might have been white once upon a time. The air smells stale and musty, untouched by the storm raging outside. But it has a door that closes with a definitive click and no windows to let in prying eyes or icy drafts, and that's all I need right now.
I shut the door firmly behind us, the solid wood barrier immediately muffling the sounds of the group settling around the fire in the main room. Chad's voice cuts off mid-complaint, replaced by blessed silence broken only by the distant howl of wind and the sound of Orla's chattering teeth.
Orla stands in the center of the cramped space, trembling so violently I can see the shivers rolling through her entire frame in waves. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself in a futile attempt to contain some warmth, her knuckles white with the effort. Water drips steadily from her hair, her clothes, forming a small puddle at her feet.
"Clothes off," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument as I'm already shrugging out of my own soaked jacket. The heavy fabric hits the floor with a wet slap. "All of them. Now."
"This is highly inappropriate workplace behavior." Her protest is automatic, ingrained by years of corporate conditioning, but even as the words leave her blue-tinged lips, her hands are already moving to the buttons of her blouse. Her fingers fumble clumsily with the wet fabric, the cold making her coordination clumsy and uncertain in a way that's completely unlike her usual precise efficiency.
"The workplace is currently a forest. Normal rules do not apply." I strip off my shirt, then my pants, until I'm standing in just my undergarments, letting my natural body heat start to warm the small space. "Stop thinking like a manager. Start thinking like a survivor."
She peels off her blouse with shaking hands, then her skirt, her stockings, until she's standing in just her undergarments, pale skin covered in goosebumps, looking small and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful.
