The weather station groaned under the weight of the wind against its siding, each gust rattling old screws and whispering through the warped seams. In the abandoned radio room, far from the front chamber where the newcomers lay huddled and the second room where the others rested, Zara shut the door behind her.
It clicked softly, somehow still audible in the wind.
Winter was already inside, sitting on the edge of an old bench with a broken transceiver beside him, fingers drumming against his thigh.
"I don't like this," he said. Not angry—just flat. Controlled.
Zara crossed her arms, leaning back against the cold wall. "Which part? The fact that they're here? Or the fact that we let them in?"
He didn't answer at first. The dim light from the lantern hit his jawline like frost on metal.
"I don't want to lose you," he said finally. "Not over a mistake."
Zara's eyes narrowed as she uncrossed her arms slowly. "So I'm making a mistake now?"
