They came back into the warmth like men who never wanted to leave it again.

Boots scraped once on the entry mat, then fell quiet. The greenhouse glow washed across their coats, soft and green, and the faint hum of the generator threaded beneath the storm’s distant roar.

It should have felt safe.

But it didn’t.

Sera waited by the door while they unlayered. Velcro sighed; buckles clacked; rope slid in a tired hiss as Zubair coiled it tight and hung it on the peg he’d decided was the peg. Wet gloves thumped onto the low rack by the stove.

The smell in the room shifted from cold metal and snow to damp wool, oil, and something clean from the lemon tree in the greenhouse. Steam lifted off their boots in thin threads.

Her creature purred, pleased with the small order of it. They place themselves. Between you and the glass. Between you and the noise. They know what matters.

She ignored the commentary and unwound the rag around her glove. Elias saw the crack at the seam and stiffened like a man catching a mistake on a checklist.

"Hand," he said. Doctor-voice.

She held it out without argument—more queen than patient—and let him work balm into the leather. His fingers were careful, too careful. He concentrated like the glove might bleed if he pressed wrong.

"You’re fussing," she replied, but didn’t bother to hide the faint smile on her face. It was nice that someone was fussing.

"Cracks lead to frostbite," he answered, as if that explained everything that mattered in the world.

"Sure." She flexed when he finished. The leather creaked. It would hold.

Alexei watched from the couch with his head tilted, eyes warm, mouth curved in a not-smile that admitted he was enjoying the view more than he should. She narrowed her eyes at him. He raised his brows, shameless and comfortable, like a cat in a patch of sun.

The kettle muttered on the camp stove. Elias poured the first mugs—metal that had known better days—and set one in front of each of them before he took his own.

He hesitated half a second over hers, as if he wanted to explain. She didn’t let him. She picked it up, swallowed, and ignored the way her tongue tried to curl away from the taste.

Salt. Metal. Old.

Her creature rumbled happily. Prey water. Drink first. As it should be.

Lachlan made a face so dramatic it should have fallen off. "Tastes like a fish pissed in a penny jar," he said, then swung his grin at her like a dare to laugh.

Her mouth didn’t move. She took another swallow. His grin widened anyway. Game accepted, even if she wouldn’t play it out loud.

"Na zdorovie," Alexei said, toasting her like it was vodka, and drained half his mug in one go. He smacked his lips loud enough to earn a look from Zubair.

Zubair didn’t comment. He just drank: jaw set, no pause, no complaint. He wrapped the loose tail of rope around his hand and sat on the arm of the couch like it was a sentry post.

Elias took the smallest sip and muttered, "High mineral load," then looked like he wished he could stuff the words back into his mouth. He tried again. "Drinkable."

"Drinkable," Sera echoed, and this time she let her mouth tip in a small, sharp smile.

He blinked, eyes snagging on hers for a beat, then ducked his head to hide the way relief softened his face.

The storm threw a shoulder into the glass. Tiny pellets of ice dinged against the panes in a quick, needling rhythm. The frame shuddered. Nobody flinched. Zubair set his mug down with steady hands.

"She holds," he said.

Something unspooled half a notch. Shoulders dropped. Air came back to the room.

Lachlan shook a cold pan free of snowflakes, wiped it on his shirt, then set it on the second burner. Oil went in, then kernels. "I can’t fix the taste of the water," he announced. "But I can make hot, salty noise. Which is almost as good."

"That is not how categories work," Elias replied, rolling his eyes. That earned him three kernels flicked at his chest. He caught one on reflex and—because he was Elias—ate it, then looked betrayed at himself.

Sera sat at the corner of the couch. Alexei filled the space beside her like he’d been poured there. He sprawled, long legs planted, one arm draped along the back of the cushion—not quite around her, close enough she could feel heat through layers.

His attention lived in the air between the TV and her face, and he didn’t pretend otherwise.

Lachlan crouched in front of the stove and listened for the first pop. When it came, he grinned like the pan had complimented him personally. "Music," he said, and shook the handle in a practiced flick so the kernels danced. The sound stitched itself under the storm like it belonged.

Elias moved to the counter and pretended the kettle needed managing. He hated stillness; she could see it in the way he arranged and rearranged the cups, the way his shoulders stayed a notch too high. He wanted to be relaxed the way Lachlan was, loose and ridiculous. He wasn’t built like that.

He set the kettle down, picked it up, set it down again. He caught her watching and flushed, then found something else to do with his hands.

Zubair didn’t sit properly. He never did. He stood or leaned in places where sitting would have felt like a lie. He had his knife in his palm, edge turned away, tapping the end of the handle against his thigh in a rhythm the storm could have learned from.

Alexei flicked a glance up at the dead TV. "Any way the generator powers it long enough for movie?" he asked, like a man casually wondering if the moon was available for tea.

"Not practical," Elias said automatically, then winced at himself for saying it.

"Not practical," Alexei agreed cheerfully, "but useful. Everyone is tight as wire."

Zubair stared at the black screen like it had offended him in a previous life. "One," he said. "Not a second one."