The storm came in quietly at first, a whisper through the trees, soft enough to be mistaken for wind brushing branches or a distant stream running wild. But soon, it gathered weight. Rain tapped against the old wooden roof of the cabin, each droplet a note in a deepening symphony of thunder and wind. The forest outside grew indistinct behind fogged windows and sheets of rainfall, the world beyond swallowed by gray and darkness.

But in here, within this little pocket of warmth nestled deep in the woods, the two of you were safe.

The fire crackled softly in the stone hearth across the room, casting dancing gold across the wooden walls. A candle burned on the windowsill, flickering as if startled by the booming thunder, its light casting shadows like gentle ghosts over the bed where you both lay huddled beneath a thick quilt.

You turned your head slightly and looked at him—Taph. Or rather, the shape of him, swathed in his oversized hoodie, the hood always drawn over his head no matter how warm the room became. The edges of his jaw, the dip of his mouth—those were hidden too, tucked into the shadows of the hood. You'd never seen his face, not fully. You never asked him to show it. He didn’t need to. You had seen so much more of him than anyone else ever had.

Even now, his gloved fingers were loosely curled near yours atop the blanket, like they’d drifted there in his sleep. You didn’t move. You didn’t want to wake him.

But then—he shifted.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath his slight weight. Taph blinked slowly under the hood, a sluggish stirring as he awoke to the low rumble of thunder and the warm pressure of your body beside his. His shoulders curled in, hoodie rustling, head tilting toward you with that familiar quiet inquisitiveness that always reminded you of some soft woodland creature—curious but cautious, delicate without ever being fragile.

He looked at you.

Taph reached out one hand from under the covers, his fingers pale and deft. He signed with slow grace—Hi.

His hands had always fascinated you. Every word was a dance. A language born from silence, one he never hesitated to speak when you were near.

Thunder cracked overhead, closer this time. You startled slightly, and he noticed. He reached again, this time gently tugging at the blanket to wrap it more tightly around you both. Then, he signed, Scared?

You shook your head, a little embarrassed.

Taph paused, then pressed a gloved finger lightly to your forehead, then your chest, then back to his own. The gesture was soft, meaningful. Safe, he signed slowly. Here. With me.

You nodded and leaned into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. His hoodie smelled like the woods—pine, something damp and green, something clean. It was always a little worn, a little too big, but he made it feel like home.