E L A R A

The dark presses close. Water moves against the rock, steady and cold. My hands don’t feel like mine; even my pulse sounds far away.

Adrian’s lamp sputters and dies. Blackness swallows us. Air thins in my chest before I can stop it. I hear water forcing through cracks and his breathing, rough and fast.

“Elara.” His voice cuts through. “Talk to me.”

“I’m … here.” My jaw won’t work right. The cold climbs faster now, numbing fingers, toes, jaw.

Metal scrapes as he digs through the pack. “Water’s rising. There’s a shelf, we need to climb.”

I tried. But my knees gives. He catches me around the waist, heat shocking through soaked fabric.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

“I’m fine.” A lie.

“You’re shaking too hard.”

“I can.”

“No.” He lifts me until my boots scrape rock. Every sound echoes. He props me against the wall and kneels in front of me, checking pulse, skin, pupils. He’s efficient and focused.

“Skin’s ice.” His thumbs work over my wrists. “We warm you now.”

“I know the stages,” I mutter. “Cold stress, energy..”

“Stop,” he snaps. “You’re not giving a lecture. You’re staying alive.”

The bite in,  his voice pulls me back. I blink until his shape steadies close and intent.

He yanks off his jacket, wraps it around me, tucks the collar under my chin. “Quiet. Keep talking so you keep breathing.”

A hard shiver shakes me. “You always have to be in charge.”

“Right now? Yes.” His breath warms my ear. “Because if you stop answering, there’s no one left to argue with.”

I almost smile. 

The wall is slick behind me; the storm beyond the collapse has dulled to a low roar. His hands move constantly, rubbing heat into my arms and shoulders. My teeth click.

“Listen,” he says, steadier. “We’re past the worst. Kai knows our route. The storm will break. You’ll walk out.”

“Promise?”

“Swear it.”

I hold on to that voice, to the weight of his hands.

A tremor shakes the cave. His palm spreads over my ribs. “Still with me?”

“Yes.” Barely sound.

He exhales roughly. “Good. Don’t drift.”

The water laps higher. I feel it even through numb legs. Sleep presses heavy.

“If you sleep,” he warns, quiet but firm, “you might not wake.”

“Then talk,” I whisper. “Keep me here.”

“Tell me something from home.”

“Boston,” I murmur. “My sister says I ran away.”

“You didn’t run.” His fingers keep working blood back into my hands. “You built something new.”

The words hurt and help. “You don’t know me.”

“I’ve watched you fight storms for days. I know enough.”

Another shiver hits. He pulls me close without thinking, chest hot against mine, heartbeat strong. I lean into it, greedy for warmth.

“Better?”

“A little.” It’s everything. His heat, his voice, our breathing aligning.

He brushes wet hair from my cheek. “Eyes open.”

“I’m trying.”

“Don’t just try. Stay.”

In the faint glow from the water, I see his eyes – fierce, afraid. He’s not invincible. He’s terrified of losing me.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you don’t make it easy to save you,” he says, roughly. “So I’ll hold you here until you let me.”

Something inside me breaks. My hand fists in his shirt; he covers it, pressing it to his chest so I feel his heartbeat.

“Skin-to-skin works best,” I manage. “You know that.”

“You’re quoting again.” His short laugh sounds like relief. “You’re impossible.”

“It’s the only language I learned right.”

He leans his forehead to mine. Our breath mingles, warm in the cold. Every nerve wakes.

“Stay awake,” he whispers. “Whatever it takes.”

“I will.”

He starts talking with simple, steady things: the wind will shift, the tide will drop, Kai will find us. I focus on his mouth moving, the warmth where we touch. The shaking eases.

Another chill climbs my spine.

“Wet layers off,” he orders. “We share heat. No arguments.”

I nod but fumble the zipper. His hands cover mine, gentle but firm. He helps me peel off the outer layer, then strips his own shirt and draws me into his chest, wrapping the jacket around both of us. Heat slams through me. Skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

His palms flatten on my back, rubbing slow circles to drive warmth deeper. My body shivers hard; he murmurs against my hair, “Good. That’s your body fighting back.”

I tuck my face against his throat, breathing salt and sweat. His pulse steadies me.

“Talk to me,” I whisper.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Anything that keeps me here.”

He shifts so I’m across his thighs for leverage, his arms braced around me. Full contact with heat, control and safety. I relax into it.

“You’ll feel pins and needles,” he says. “Don’t fight it.”

The prickling spreads through my limbs. Painful, alive. I breathe through it. His voice stays low and even.

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.” He laces our fingers, rubbing each knuckle. “Squeeze.”

I do. He squeezes back, firm. “Again.”

We work in sets with hands, arms, legs. Each motion builds warmth. Every time I fade, he pulls me back with my name near my ear. Every gasp, he steadies me with a touch under my jaw. Heat replaces the cold inch by inch.

He shifts closer. Our mouths nearly touch. His breath brushes my lips; my fingers slide up to his shoulders. He doesn’t move away.

“Eyes on me,” he says.

“I’m on you.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m on you.”

His hand cradles my head, thumb stroking wet hair. “Good girl.”

The words send a tremor through me. My breath catches.

“Adrian.” A warning, a need.

“I know.” His voice roughens.

He tilts his head, touches his mouth to mine, light, testing. Heat flashes through me. I grip his shoulders. The kiss deepens, slow and controlled, trading breath for warmth. He breaks it first, forehead to mine.

“Breathe.”

“I’ve got it.”

He kisses me again, firmer this time, hands framing my face. My head clears with every slow pass of his mouth. The cold loses ground. His thumbs trace my cheeks; every place we touch feels awake. I press closer. The sound he makes is quiet, raw.

“We stay in control,” he says. “We keep you warm. Safe.”

“I know where it is safe.”

“Good.” He brushes a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Stay with me.”

We talk between kisses, short questions, short answers. I give him my sister’s name; he repeats it softly. He counts the tremors, the change in wind outside. His calm keeps me anchored while the heat between us builds.

When another shiver hits, he pulls the jacket tighter around us, legs aligned, bodies locked for warmth.

“Tell me what you need,” he says.

“Your voice,” I whisper. “Your hands. This.”

He answers with another kiss, slow and sure. The sound I make disappears into it.

The shaking eases. Warmth seeps through muscle and bone until I feel heavy, steady, alive. I flex my toes and sensation returns.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Come back to me.”

“I am.”

He smiles against my mouth. “More.”

I give him my weight. He takes it easily, hands steady on my back, thumbs drawing small, slow lines that make me shiver for a new reason. He doesn’t push. He just holds, letting heat do its work.

Time blurs into breathing. When my mind drifts, he names details to ground me, the crack in the wall where the waterline dropped, the new direction of the air. Each word keeps me awake.

“Adrian,” I whisper. “Look at me.”

He does. Even in the dark I see relief soften his eyes. I touch his jaw. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We still walk out.”

“We will.”

He studies my face, memorizing it, then kisses me again, slow and certain. It’s not a distraction. It’s proof we’re still alive.

Outside, the wind shifts. The water falls from the ledge with a gentler sound.

“Hear that?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“The storm’s moving. The tide’s easing.”

My chest loosens. My body feels mine again. I rest my forehead to his, exhaling the breath I’ve held since the light went out.

He laces our fingers, squeezes once. “If you sleep, you might not wake.”

“I’m not sleeping.” I kissed him again, quick, sure. “I’m here.”

He exhales, holding me tighter. I listen to his heartbeat. We breathe together until the cave sounds different, lighter.

After a while he shifts back to practical. “We’ll give it a little longer,” he says. “Then move. Slow. No heroics.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

His mouth curves against my hair. I feel it, and it steadies me.

“Stay awake with me,” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I squeeze his fingers. “Whatever it takes.”

We wait. We listen. Warm against warm, breath against breath. When I close my eyes, it isn’t to drift, it’s to feel the lift of his chest and believe morning is coming.

And when it does, we’ll move. 

Together.