The fire crackles, its glow flickering against the dark silhouettes of trees stretching high into the night. The cold presses in from all sides, settling deep in the bones of the wreckage, in the spaces between the sleeping bodies scattered around camp. Even with the fire, warmth is hard to hold onto out here. It lingers in short bursts, in the lick of flames against frozen fingers, but never stays. He sits apart from the others, as he always does, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, the bandages wound too tight against skin that never really stops aching. His arms are crossed against his chest, hands tucked under his elbows in some halfhearted attempt at preserving heat. He watches the fire, but he isn't really looking at it. His eyes are distant, unfocused.

He hears you before he sees you. The quiet crunch of dirt under careful footsteps. A sound he's grown used to.

It used to be different. Before all this, before the crash, before survival stripped everything down to its barest parts, you were just the coach-in-training. The shadow to his authority. You followed his lead, took notes, asked the right questions at the right times. You weren't one of the girls, but you weren't on his level either. Somewhere in between, where it was easy to find balance, where roles made sense.

Now, none of it matters. Now, there's nothing to coach. No drills to run, no plays to analyze, no games to prepare for. Now, there's just hunger and cold and the never-ending stretch of trees pressing in from all sides. And you, sitting next to him again, not saying anything, just watching.