Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lake didn’t look like salvation.
It looked like something waiting to break.

Snow stretched across the surface in a perfect white sheet, covering cracks that spidered deep below. The air stung in Travis’s lungs as he stood at the edge, one gloved hand curled around the rope they’d tied to the birch tree the night before. His breath fogged in front of him, useless warmth bleeding into the cold.

Natalie was already crouched by the hole, staring down into the water like it had said something insulting.

“You’re late,” she said.

“You didn’t say what time.”

“Well,” she muttered, squinting at the rope. “It’s earlier than whenever-the-fuck-you-decided-to-show.”

Travis didn’t answer. He watched her check the knots, her movements brisk and practiced. There was frost in her hair.

She didn’t look up when she said, “They said it moved closer to the surface overnight. We might actually get it this time.”

“You didn’t want to wait for the others?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Travis shifted his weight. “It’s gonna take at least two people pulling, maybe three. It’s huge. We should’ve brought—”

“Everyone else is too chicken-shit or too tired,” she said. “Or both.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is starvation.” She finally looked up, her eyes sharp. “Do you want to argue or do you want to eat this week?”

Travis held her gaze. “I want to make sure you don’t fall in and die.”

A flicker of something passed across her face. It wasn’t quite surprise.

“You’re really fixated on that,” she said.

“Because it’s happened before,” he snapped. “We’ve lost people to the cold. The ice isn’t always stable. It’s not—safe.”

Natalie snorted. “Nothing’s safe. You think the trees are safe? The cabin? Lottie’s weird cult-shit breathing down everyone’s neck?”

“That’s different.”

She stood and dusted off her knees, walking a few feet away and folding her arms across her chest.

Travis watched her carefully. Her posture was defensive, but the tension in her jaw gave her away.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” he said quietly.

“Who did?”

He moved closer. “I mean it. You’ve been running on fumes since the storm.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Welcome to the team.”

“Natalie.” He stepped in front of her, and when she didn’t move, he softened his voice. “Why do you always have to act like you don’t matter?”

That got her.

She blinked slowly, like she’d been slapped but refused to react. “Because if I act like I do, it hurts more when people remind me I don’t.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” Her voice rose. “My dad shot himself in front of me and no one asked if I was okay. I get clean and people still treat me like I’m gonna fuck up again. I try to help and all I get are lectures.”

Travis was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You do matter.”

“To who?”

“To me.”

Her breath hitched. Just slightly. She turned her back to him.

For a minute, the silence settled over them like snow.

Then she sighed. “You gonna help me pull this moose out, or what?”

Travis stepped up beside her again. “Only if you tie the rope to yourself.”

“I won’t fall in.”

“Nat.”

“I promise.”

“That’s not good enough.”

She stared at him, eyebrows raised. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust the ice.”

“I’m not tying the rope,” she said, suddenly serious. “I want to be able to move fast if it cracks. Not get yanked down because I’m leashed to some tree.”

Travis exhaled slowly. “Fine. But the second it looks shaky—”

“You’ll catch me,” she said.

He met her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I will.”

———

The rope felt heavier than it had last time.

It creaked and groaned as Travis looped it over his shoulder and stepped back toward the tree, digging his boots into the snow for leverage. Natalie knelt again, gripping the other end with both hands, her breath fogging in sharp puffs. The air was colder now—sharper, more brittle. Even the moose beneath the water looked like it had frozen further into death.

“On three,” she said.

Travis nodded.

“One…”

They braced themselves.

“Two…”

His muscles tightened, fingers raw inside his gloves.

“Three.”

They pulled.

Nothing at first—just a groan from the rope, a shift of weight in the line.

Then slowly, the moose began to rise.

They strained together, dragging the massive weight toward the lip of the ice hole. Water sloshed violently, dark and thick, crashing up onto the rim. The front half of the animal surfaced, stiff and bloated, a grim monument to survival.

“Keep going,” Natalie gasped. “Almost—”

Another pull.

Travis stumbled forward a step.

Natalie leaned back, eyes narrowed, arms shaking.

And then—

The crack.

Loud. Deep. Final.

It split the air like a gunshot.

Travis’s stomach dropped.

“Natalie, back—!”

But it was too late.

The ice gave out beneath her.

Her arms flailed for a split second—

Then she was gone.

———

The water was louder than he expected.

It swallowed her with a slap and a hiss and then—silence.

“Natalie!”

He dropped everything.

Ran to the hole.

No bubbles. No sound. Just black water.

He threw himself in.

The cold was a second impact.

Everything locked up at once—his chest, his arms, even his thoughts. Panic surged. He forced himself to dive deeper, arms sweeping through nothing.

Seconds passed.

Ten. Twenty.

He couldn’t find her.

Thirty. Forty.

His lungs burned. His vision blurred. He turned again, deeper.

Fifty.

His fingers brushed something—her sleeve.

He grabbed it, pulled.

It was her.

She didn’t move.

Travis kicked upward, legs trembling, teeth clenched. The light above was faint, distorted.

He broke the surface, gasping.

She was ice-cold in his arms.

———

He dragged her onto the shore, breathing ragged.

Her head lolled to one side.

Her lips were blue. Her eyelashes rimmed with frost.

She didn’t shiver.

That was bad.

That was really, really bad.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, Nat.”

No answer.

He gathered her in his arms, braced his feet, and started running.

———

The forest rose to meet him like a storm.

He crashed through the underbrush, branches raking across his skin, snow biting into his legs. Natalie’s body bounced against his chest, heavier than ever, soaked and limp.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, panting. “You’re okay. We’re almost there.”

But they weren’t.

The trees stretched endlessly.

His muscles screamed.

His vision narrowed.

He didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t stop.

Not when she was still in his arms.

Not when she still had a pulse.

Chapter Text

The door slammed open so hard it cracked against the inside wall. Snow and wind howled through the cabin like a scream.

Travis staggered inside, water trailing behind him, ice clinging to his hair. His arms trembled from the weight of Natalie’s soaked body as he pushed forward. She wasn’t moving.

Her limbs hung limp. Her hair dripped in dark, frozen ropes. Her lips were blue.

Van saw them first. She leapt to her feet, eyes going wide with disbelief.

“What the fuck—?”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Taissa was up a second later, almost knocking over the bench. “Travis?! What the hell—what happened?!”

Travis’s mouth moved but nothing came out. He stumbled toward the fire and dropped to his knees, clutching Natalie tighter. She looked smaller in his arms than she ever had before.

“She fell,” he finally choked out. “She—she fell in. The rope, she wasn’t—she wasn’t tied. The lake… I couldn’t find her—I was in there—”

Coach Scott stood with effort, grabbing his crutches, his one leg unsteady as he hobbled closer. His eyes scanned Natalie’s body, his face going grim.

Misty appeared beside them, already rolling up her sleeves. “Put her down. Here. Gently—right on the furs. Let me see.”

Travis lowered her down with shaking hands. Natalie’s body was soaked through. Her skin was white as snow. Her jaw was slack.

“Why the fuck isn’t she shivering?” Van asked, voice high and tight. “She should be shivering, right?”

“She’s past that stage,” Misty said quickly. “Final-stage hypothermia. Her body’s not even trying to keep her warm anymore. It’s shutting down.”

Akilah hovered behind Taissa, staring in shock. “Is she even alive?”

Misty pressed her fingers to Natalie’s neck. Her brow furrowed. “Pulse is weak, but there. Barely. She’s breathing too—but shallow.”

“She’s freezing,” Travis whispered. “I couldn’t—I was under the water, trying to find her. I kept diving and—she wasn’t coming back up.”

Mari stood frozen with her arms crossed. “Jesus Christ. She looks like she’s already gone.”

Shauna was silent at first, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. Then, coldly: “We might’ve just lost her.”

Coach stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Don’t say that. We’ve come back from worse.”

Misty ignored them, checking Natalie’s limbs and pupils. “She’s in critical condition. Her organs are probably shutting down. Her kidneys, liver, lungs… and if she was under for even a minute without oxygen—”

“She was under for seventy seconds,” Travis said, eyes locked on Natalie’s face. “I counted. The whole time.”

Taissa winced. “That’s… that’s not good.”

“No,” Misty confirmed. “That’s potential brain damage. Seizures. Memory loss. Coma. We need to act now.”

———

Lottie stepped forward, eyes wide and glassy. “She’s on the edge. She’s halfway between life and death. We have to call her back.”

“Jesus Christ,” Van muttered. “Not now, Lottie.”

“We have to ask the wilderness to bring her back. Her spirit—”

“No,” Taissa said, stepping between them. “She doesn’t need that. She needs help. Medical help.”

Lottie didn’t move. “She’s listening. She’s still listening.”

“Back off,” Travis growled, his voice low and tight. “I’m not losing her while you chant at the air.”

Lottie stepped away, but her eyes never left Natalie’s face.

———

Natalie twitched.

Then all at once, her back arched.

Her arms flailed wildly and her eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened in a foaming gasp. She slammed against the furs, jerking violently.

Van screamed. “Oh my god, she’s—”

“She’s seizing,” Misty snapped. “Get something under her head—do not hold her down!”

Taissa grabbed a blanket and slid it under Natalie’s skull as her body convulsed.

“She’s choking!” Akilah cried. “Her mouth—”

“She’s biting her tongue,” Mari said under her breath.

Travis tried to gently turn Natalie on her side. Her whole body was locked in a tight, horrifying spasm.

Misty looked grim. “This is from the brain damage. The oxygen deprivation. It could be the first of many.”

“She wasn’t even supposed to seize yet,” Van whispered, backing up. “This is—this is worse than we thought.”

Then, as suddenly as it started—it stopped.

Natalie collapsed onto the furs, still and silent. Her chest moved again, barely.

Travis leaned over her, brushing the hair from her face. “Nat. Nat, come on. Come on, you’re still in there.”

———

No one moved for a long moment. The fire crackled softly behind them.

Then Misty stood. “We have to warm her. Immediately. Bath. Skin-to-skin.”

“She just had a seizure,” Taissa said. “Is that even safe?”

“It’s our only option,” Misty said. “Controlled rewarming. If we do nothing, she’s dead in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll get in with her,” Travis said. “I already said—”

“I’ll get the water,” Van interrupted, already moving.

Coach shifted on his crutches. “Don’t overheat it. Not more than lukewarm.”

Akilah nodded. “I’ll help keep the fire burning.”

Mari reached for a pot. “We’ll need snow to cool the water too, right?”

Misty nodded. “We have to bring her back slowly. And pray she doesn’t seize again.”

“She will,” Shauna muttered. “Just a matter of when.”

Travis didn’t respond. He just stared at Natalie, his face carved from stone.

———

They stripped her down carefully, gently, Natalie unmoving the whole time. Her skin was pale, mottled with bruised gray-blue splotches.

The tub filled slowly. Steam rose. The room went quiet.

Travis stepped in, still wearing his soaked boxers. He shivered as the lukewarm water touched his skin, but he didn’t hesitate.

When they lowered Natalie into his arms, her head rolled against his chest, limp and cold and terrifyingly fragile.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Misty knelt beside the tub, monitoring her. “Don’t move too fast. Her blood pressure’s still unstable.”

Coach watched silently from across the room, arms crossed on his crutches. Lottie whispered something under her breath in the shadows.

Travis held Natalie tighter. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you.”

———

Twenty minutes passed.

“She’s pinking up,” Misty said. “Good sign. But we’re stopping here.”

With help, Travis lifted Natalie from the water. They wrapped her in thick furs and towels and carried her back to the fire.

She didn’t stir, but her lips were no longer blue.

“She looks… not dead,” Van whispered.

“That’s the best we can ask for right now,” Misty replied.

Travis sat beside her, gently brushing her hair away from her eyes. “We’ve got you. Just keep breathing.”

———

“She might wake up and not remember anything,” Shauna said.

“Then we remind her,” Travis answered. “Over and over.”

Coach shifted. “We make a plan. Watch her in shifts. One person keeps the fire hot. One rotates stones. One keeps checking her pulse.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Travis said. “I’m not moving.”

“Me too,” Van said. “She’s not doing this alone.”

Akilah nodded. “I can do second shift.”

“I’ll help with water,” Mari added, already kneeling by the pot.

Misty leaned over Natalie, brushing two fingers across her wrist. “Still weak, but better than when she came in.”

“She’ll wake up,” Travis said quietly.

No one answered.

But they all hoped

Chapter Text

The cabin sat in uneasy silence, a small island of warmth and light carved out against the endless night and cold that howled outside. The wind was relentless, a fierce, biting presence that rattled the wooden walls and forced its way beneath the cracks in the door. Every gust was a reminder that nature’s fury was still waiting just beyond the fragile shelter, indifferent to their pain and fear.

Inside, the fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows that danced across the rough-hewn surfaces and threw jagged shapes onto the worn blankets piled in one corner.

Natalie lay cradled in Travis’s lap, her body a fragile weight against his own. She was so pale, almost translucent, with damp strands of hair plastered to her forehead. Her skin was slick with sweat and the melted remnants of snow that clung stubbornly to her clothes and blankets.

Travis’s fingers trembled as they ran through her tangled hair, gently brushing it aside to reveal the delicate curve of her jaw and the faint rise and fall of her shallow breath. Every single breath was a lifeline. Every twitch of her fingers, every flutter of her eyelids, a small miracle.

His heart pounded loudly in his chest, drowning out the soft, uneven rhythm of her breathing. He felt like he was walking a knife’s edge between hope and despair — between holding on and letting go.

Across the room, Van sat on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, her eyes locked on Natalie with a fierce protectiveness that bordered on desperation. The exhaustion around her was tangible, etched deep in the lines of her face, but there was something unyielding in her gaze — a stubborn flame refusing to be snuffed out.

“She’s still here,” Van said softly, voice raw and low. “She’s not out of danger, no. But she’s breathing. That counts for something.”

Travis swallowed hard, feeling the dryness choke his throat. “She spoke earlier,” he whispered. “Just a few words. Said she was cold.”

Van’s eyes flickered to the fire, watching the flames struggle and dance uncertainly. “I knew her before any of this happened. Before the crash, before Wiskayok, before the team. Before all the hell.”

Travis’s voice was a desperate plea. “Tell me everything.”

Van took a shaky breath. “We grew up in the same trailer park. I was nine, she was eight. Back then… she hadn’t started smoking yet. But I saw the bruises.”

Her voice caught on the memory, faltering. “Arms, legs… even her face sometimes. They were always hidden beneath long sleeves, jackets. She tried to cover it, keep it all hidden.”

Van’s eyes darkened, heavy with grief. “Then, during her sophomore year, her dad died. He shot himself. Right there. In their living room.”

Her voice broke, the memory stabbing through her words. “Natalie saw it. She was right there. She couldn’t run.”

Travis’s chest tightened, a sharp ache curling in his ribs.

“That’s why she flinches at loud voices,” Van said quietly. “Why she hides parts of herself from everyone. It’s why she’s so scared to let anyone in.”

Travis pulled Natalie closer, voice breaking. “She never talks about it.”

“No,” Van said firmly. “But it’s inside her — the silence, the scars, the fear she carries.”

Van hesitated, then added softly, “There was one time — when we were kids — she was about ten or eleven — she took me behind the old playground. The one with the broken swings.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “She was crying. For the first time, she told me about her dad.”

Van’s eyes glazed with pain but she pressed on. “She said he wasn’t always like that. That summer day, he took her to the lake. It was the only time she saw him smile.”

A brittle pause. “He promised her things would get better.”

Van’s voice cracked, barely audible. “They didn’t. But that memory… it stayed with her.”

Travis swallowed, voice catching. “She mentioned her dad once, right before she fell in the lake.”

Van nodded slowly, the weight of that memory settling between them. “Yeah. I think that’s why she fought so hard. Because somewhere deep down, she still wanted to believe.”

The heavy silence wrapped around them like a shroud.

“She’s the only thing that makes sense to me,” Travis whispered, voice raw and trembling. “I don’t know how I’d survive without her.”

Van’s gaze met his, fierce and unwavering. “Then hold on. Don’t ever let go.”

———

Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, relentless and cold, battering the cabin from every side.

Natalie twitched suddenly in Travis’s lap, a faint shudder rippling through her fragile body.

“Van,” Travis whispered, breath catching.

Van’s eyes snapped to Natalie just as her eyelids fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

“Nat?” Travis leaned in close, voice trembling. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Her gaze wavered, struggling to focus. “Cold… so tired.”

Misty stepped forward, alarm tightening her features. “She’s speaking?”

“Just barely,” Travis said, barely audible.

Misty pressed two fingers to Natalie’s wrist, counting carefully. “Pulse is low but steady. Temperature dangerously low.”

Without warning, Natalie’s body tensed violently, arching in sudden convulsions.

“She’s seizing!” Misty shouted.

Travis reached out, trying to hold her steady, but her body jerked free, thrashing violently.

Van’s voice cracked with panic. “Not again… please no.”

Natalie’s eyes rolled back, foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth.

“She’s choking!” Akilah screamed.

Taissa and Van rushed forward, carefully rolling Natalie onto her side. “Clear her airway! Make sure she can breathe!”

Mari’s voice trembled. “She’s burning up! Someone get cold water!”

Coach Scott gripped his wooden crutches tightly, voice calm but urgent. “Find water, cold cloths — whatever you can. Bring that fever down.”

Shauna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression cold and distant. “Her brain’s fried. This isn’t going to stop.”

Van shot her a furious glare. “Don’t say that.”

Travis held Natalie close, whispering fiercely, “Stay with me. Please don’t leave me.”

The seizure finally passed, leaving Natalie limp but alive.

Misty checked her vitals carefully. “Stable for now. But her brain is under serious stress.”

Van’s voice trembled. “She’s going to have brain damage, isn’t she?”

Misty looked away, unable to meet their eyes. “It’s possible. We can only hope we’ve bought her time.”

The group moved quietly but urgently, gently cooling Natalie’s fevered skin with wet cloths, taking shifts to watch her shallow breaths and subtle twitches.

Travis refused to leave her side, fingers stroking her hair, lips pressed tenderly to her damp forehead.

“You’re still here,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hold on. Please.”

The cabin felt thick with tension — the fragile line between life and death stretched taut.

Van caught Travis’s eye, nodding firmly. “She’s stronger than any of us.”

Travis nodded, swallowing the raw pain. “I won’t let her go.”

Shauna’s cold voice broke the silence. “We’re running out of time.”

Van stood, voice steady but fierce. “Then we fight. We don’t give up.”

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, Travis held Natalie close — fragile but alive — fighting for every breath.

Chapter Text

Travis had barely moved in hours.

His legs were numb, back pressed against the log wall of the cabin, but he didn’t care. Natalie lay cradled in his arms, her body barely warm beneath the pile of coats and fur. She looked dead. She wasn’t — not yet. But her stillness made it hard to believe otherwise.

He’d gotten used to feeling her breath in the cold air, each shallow rise of her chest a reminder that she was still fighting.

And so he kept holding her.

Kept brushing his fingers through the wet tangles of her hair.

Kept talking.

“I know you hate this,” he murmured against her temple. “Being touched like this. I mean, not always. But when you’re like this — still, helpless — I know you’d fight me if you could.”

His thumb gently traced along her temple, then down to her cheekbone.

“You’d be swearing, flipping me off, yelling for me to stop mother-henning you.”

He gave a short, unsteady laugh. “You always hated that phrase.”

The fire popped behind them. Travis didn’t flinch. Just kept brushing her hair slowly, rhythmically, like it was something sacred. Like it kept her heart beating.
His hand moved carefully through a tangle near the back of her neck. “I remember… one time, freshman year. You came to school with this huge knot in the back, like a bird had nested in there. Van offered to brush it out during lunch and you almost punched her in the face.”

He gave a breath of a laugh — fragile. “You told her you’d rather shave your head than let anyone yank on your scalp again.”

His hand kept moving, gentle, rhythmic.

“I didn’t get it at first,” he murmured. “I thought you were just being dramatic. That you wanted attention.” He looked down. “But, then you told me something.”

His voice grew even softer.

“You said your dad used to brush your hair when he was drunk. Pulled too hard. Got pissed when you cried. Called you dramatic.”

He swallowed. Her skin was burning. But she hadn’t seized again — not yet.

“I never forgot that,” he said. “That you stopped letting anyone touch your hair after that.”

Another knot. Another slow pull. Still no reaction.

“You let me do it once,” he added, brushing a strand behind her ear. “You let me in.”

His hand paused. “So let me in again. Please. Come back.”
———

Time stretched on in silence. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

Then, her heavy eyelids fluttered open.

She blinked, groggy but aware.

“Jesus,” she rasped, voice raw. “You look like shit.”

Relief flooded Travis’s chest.

“You’re awake.”

She shifted, wincing.

“Feel like a dump truck hit me. Twice.”

Van rushed forward, eyes glistening.

“Nat, you scared us all.”

Natalie snorted.

“Try drowning sometime. See how funny that feels.”

———

Misty practically bounced in place.

“You’re lucid! Talking! Maybe a little brain-damaged, but alive!”

Natalie shot her a sharp look.

“Save the science lecture. I’m too tired. And less dumb than you think.”

Tai smiled gently.

“You sound like yourself.”

Natalie smirked.

“Yeah, the same pain in the ass.”

Travis grinned.

“You owe me a blunt when you’re better.”

She squinted at him.

“Keep looking like death warmed over, and I might reconsider.”

Mari approached carefully.

“Glad you’re awake.”

Natalie rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get soft on me. No hugs.”

Van wiped a tear.

“You’re impossible.”

Natalie’s faint smile.

“And you love it.”
———

The cabin door creaked open.

Coach Scott stood framed in the cold light, leaning heavily on his wooden crutches. His face looked older somehow — worn thin by fear and sleeplessness.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes landing on Natalie.

She was curled up in Travis’s lap, blankets around her like a cocoon. Her eyes were half-lidded, but sharp enough.

“Well look who didn’t freeze to death,” he said.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Natalie croaked, voice raw but unmistakably hers.

Coach gave a small, tired smile. “I’d be more surprised if you didn’t come back swinging.”

“Still deciding,” she muttered. “Might just start biting people.”

“You already scared Misty off twice,” Van offered from nearby.

Coach stepped in further, glancing over her carefully — flushed cheeks, tangled hair, trembling hands. “How are you feeling?”

Natalie shrugged. “Like I got hit by a truck. Then set on fire. Then revived by a raccoon with a grudge.”

Coach huffed a laugh.

“Sounds about right,” he said. Then, gently: “You gave us a scare.”

She didn’t look at him at first. Then she said, “I don’t remember it.”

“You don’t have to.”

For a moment, she just stared into the fire. Then: “Thanks for not giving up.”

Coach nodded, quiet. “We’re still in this. All of us.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him. “Coach?”

He paused at the door.

“You gonna cry too?”

He gave her a look — flat, dry, but warm underneath. “Already did. You missed it.”

Then he left.

———

She sipped water, eyes locked on Travis.

“Feel like I got hit by a moose, then dragged through the swamp.”

He smirked.

“That moose owes me cash.”

Natalie gave him a tired glare.

“You look like hell. Ever heard of sleep?”

He laughed.

“Not lately.”

Van’s voice was steady.

“We’ll get through this. Together.”

Natalie’s gaze softened.

“Good. I’m not done with any of you.”

———
Later, she leaned into Travis’s chest again, eyes heavy.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“You gonna watch me like a creep?”

“Obviously.”

“Cool,” she muttered. “Wake me up if I start dying again.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Deal.”

———
The room dimmed again. The others drifted off. Only Travis stayed awake, brushing her hair back slowly.
“You always said you didn’t need anyone,” he murmured. “That you were fine on your own. That needing people made you weak.”

His voice cracked just slightly.

“But that’s not true. Needing people doesn’t make you weak. You taught me that—just by surviving as long as you did.”

His thumb brushed her temple, warm beneath his touch.

“I know you think the world forgot about you. That your pain doesn’t matter. But I see you, Nat. I always did.”

He exhaled, slow and careful.

“You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. And you’re not alone.”

His fingers tangled gently in her hair.

“If you need someone to carry all the heavy shit, I’ll do it. You don’t have to keep dragging it by yourself.”

He looked down at her flushed face.

“So rest. I’ll keep watch. And when you wake up, I’ll still be here.”
———
Without warning, her body tensed violently.

Travis’s heart seized.

“Van—!”

“She’s seizing!” Misty shouted.

Her limbs jerked uncontrollably—arms flailing, legs thrashing.

He caught her trembling form, holding tight but gentle.

“Watch her mouth! Don’t let her bite her tongue!” Tai yelled.

Her jaw clenched hard, saliva foaming.

Eyes rolled back fully, white and unseeing.

Breathing ragged and uneven.

“She’s choking!” Akilah cried.

Travis tilted her head, fighting to keep her airway clear.

Minutes warped into eternity.

Her body convulsed harder, spasms relentless.

His arms trembled with exhaustion and panic.

“She’s not stopping! Come back, Nat!” he begged.

Saliva pooled, threatening to choke.

Lips turned blue.

“Water! Towels!” Misty shouted.

Her fingers twitched spasmodically.

Her body jerked violently again.

Travis gasped, helpless.

Still she convulsed.

Still the seizure dragged on, endless.

His heart hammered—no end in sight.

“Please,” he whispered brokenly. “Please don’t leave me.”

Finally, tremors slowed.

Limbs went limp.

Breaths shallow but steady.

———

Heavy silence settled.

“She’s breathing,” Misty said softly, relief barely contained. “Weak, but breathing.”

Shauna’s voice cut through.

“She was fine. Talking. Laughing. What happened?”

Misty’s expression grew serious.

“It’s called a lucid interval. The body tricks you—it looks better, but it’s just the last stand. The crash always comes after.”

Van’s voice cracked.

“She’s still fighting.”

Coach Scott shifted on his wooden crutches.

“We need shifts. Warmth. Fluids.”

Taissa volunteered immediately.

“I’ll take first watch.”

Van added softly.

“I’m staying too.”

Misty leaned closer to Travis.

“If she wakes up… you never know what could happen. She could be different. Memory loss, confusion. She might not remember any of this.”

Travis nodded slowly, fingers tangled in Natalie’s hair.

“I’m not leaving.”

Van smiled gently.

“And don’t forget the blunt you owe her.”

He gave a tired smile.

“Yeah. I owe her that.”
———
And as the fire cracked low and the wind howled beyond the walls, he held her tighter and promised, silently, that no matter what came next—she wouldn’t face it alone.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned low again. Just the occasional pop of sap cracked through the stillness. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, muffled by snow and distance, but inside the cabin, every breath, every shift of weight, felt too loud.

Travis hadn’t moved in hours.

He sat cross-legged by the wall, a heavy blanket draped around his shoulders, staring across the room where Natalie lay bundled beneath every spare quilt they had. Her hair stuck to her forehead, her eyes closed, lips parted as she slept. Her breathing was still shallow, but steadier now — a slow rhythm the rest of them clung to.

No one said it aloud, but they were scared.

Of what might come next. Of what damage had already been done.

He couldn’t stop replaying what happened after her seizure — how they’d fought to keep her still, how she’d gone silent, limp, terrifyingly still. He thought she was gone. Just for a second. And that second was enough to shatter him.

Van sat beside him, hugging her knees, her expression tight. She didn’t look over at him, but he knew she was thinking the same thing.

Across the cabin, Misty whispered something to Mari, too quiet to catch. Shauna stood near the door with crossed arms and that same unreadable look she always wore when things got bad — like if she didn’t show fear, it couldn’t touch her.

But it was Travis who hadn’t slept. Not since Natalie collapsed again.

He reached down to adjust the corner of one of the blankets covering her. She didn’t stir.

“She used to tell these awful jokes,” Van said suddenly, voice hoarse from disuse.

Travis looked over. “Yeah?”

Van nodded, a faint smile flickering across her lips. “I remember once at practice, Coach Martinez was running us through this drill, and Natalie shouted out, ‘This isn’t soccer, Coach, stop yelling like we owe you child support.’”

Travis barked out a surprised laugh, then clapped a hand over his mouth instinctively, like the sound might wake her.

Van smiled sadly. “She got benched for it. But she said it was worth it.”

He nodded, looking back at Natalie. “She told me she was terrified of frogs once.”

Van blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Travis said, voice quiet. “Frogs. Not spiders, not bears. Frogs.”

Van shook her head. “Of course.”

They were quiet for a while, just sitting there, trading pieces of Natalie between them like trying to stitch her back together.

“She always showed up with new bruises,” Van said softly, after a while. “Even before things got bad with her dad. Like the world never gave her a break.”

Travis didn’t answer. He just kept watching Natalie, willing her to wake up.

———

The door creaked open slowly.

Coach Scott stepped inside, leaning heavily on his crutches. His breath fogged in the air as he looked around, eyes landing on Natalie.

“She’s still out?” he asked, voice quiet.

Travis nodded.

“She stirred a little,” Van said. “But nothing real.”

Coach crossed the room slowly, his crutches thudding dully against the wood floor. He crouched — with effort — beside her.

“Hey, kid,” he murmured. “Still taking your sweet time, huh?”

Travis watched silently as Coach reached out and gently pressed his hand to Natalie’s forehead. She didn’t react.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he added.

There was a long silence. Then Coach’s voice softened, almost like he was talking to himself. “You remember that time you stole a whole loaf of bread from my lunch? Said you were training to be a raccoon.”

Van smiled faintly.

Coach shook his head. “You always found a way to laugh. Even when everything sucked.”

He adjusted the blankets a little more around her, then stood with a quiet grunt.

“We’re not losing her,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Not after everything.”

Travis felt something swell in his chest — a blend of fear and gratitude and something that felt close to hope.

Coach met his eyes. “She needs people around her who give a damn. That’s you two. Don’t leave her alone.”

“We won’t,” Van said quietly.

Coach nodded and stepped back out into the cold.

———

It was nearly dawn when Natalie stirred.

Not the small twitches she’d been making for hours. This was different.

Her fingers clenched the blanket. Her chest hitched sharply.

Then her eyes flew open.

Travis jolted up, heart hammering. “Nat?”

Her pupils were blown wide. Her face contorted in panic. She shoved the blanket off and scrambled backwards, wild-eyed and gasping.

“Hey! It’s okay—” Van started.

“Don’t touch me!” Natalie screamed, her voice ragged. “Where the hell am I?!”

Travis held his hands up. “Natalie, it’s us. You’re safe.”

She shook her head violently, pressing herself against the wall. “No. No, no—he’s gonna kill me—”

Van stepped forward gently. “It’s okay. You’re not—”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Natalie shouted.

The room froze.

Misty crept closer from the other side. “Natalie, it’s okay, it’s Misty. You know me—”

“Stop it!” she yelled, curling in on herself. “I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

Travis moved slowly, crouching a few feet away. “Natalie… it’s Travis. Remember me?”

She blinked at him, her breathing sharp and shallow. “Who—who the hell are you?”

His chest cracked. “It’s me. Travis.”

She whimpered, eyes darting around the room, searching, shaking. “Coach. Where’s Coach Scott?!”

Van glanced at him, then bolted to the door. “I’ll get him.”

Travis reached forward slightly. “You’re safe, Nat. I promise.”

“Don’t—” she sobbed. “He said he’d break my fingers if I told. I didn’t tell. I didn’t.”

Travis’s hands trembled. “Natalie…”

Van returned moments later with Coach, who moved quickly across the room despite the crutches.

“Coach!” Natalie cried. “Don’t let them touch me—please—”

Coach dropped beside her gently. “Hey, hey. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Natalie latched onto his arm like a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder.

Travis turned away, throat thick.

“She doesn’t know us,” Van whispered.

Coach looked up, expression grim. “Give her time. She’s been through hell.”

They all stood in silence as she clung to Coach like a terrified child, still trembling.

———

Later, the group gathered quietly by the fire.

“She only recognizes Coach,” Van said flatly. “She’s scared of the rest of us.”

“Do we wait it out?” Akilah asked.

“She just had a massive seizure,” Misty said. “She’s still in recovery. Memory loss, confusion, trauma — it’s all possible. We have to be patient.”

Shauna rolled her eyes. “And what, just tiptoe around her forever?”

“No,” Coach said firmly. “But we don’t push her either.”

Travis hadn’t said a word. He just stared at the spot where Natalie had been.

“She knew me before,” he said quietly. “I’ll get her back.”

Van nodded. “We will.”

Outside, the wind had died down.

But inside, the storm still lingered — not around them, but within

Chapter Text

The snow had stopped sometime before dawn, but the world still felt like it was holding its breath.

The fire had burned down to its bones. Little pops echoed through the cabin as the last bits of wood collapsed inward, and the smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling like it wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. The air was bitter, colder than it had been the night before, but no one moved to stoke the fire. They were all too tired, too unsure of what would happen if they did the wrong thing.

Travis sat near the far wall, knees tucked to his chest, spine pressed against the logs. He couldn’t feel his toes, and he didn’t care. His eyes hadn’t left her.

Natalie was still curled up in the corner, exactly where they’d left her. Wrapped in more blankets than one person should need, and still shaking beneath them.

She hadn’t said anything since last night.

She hadn’t looked at him either.

Her eyes—when they did open—moved quickly across the room, never landing on anyone for long. Always flinching when someone shifted, always ducking deeper into the blankets like a kid hiding from monsters under the bed.

She didn’t look like Natalie.

And worst of all, she didn’t look at him.

Like she didn’t know who he was.

Like he was no one.

———

The door creaked, and Travis knew the sound by heart now: crutch, foot, crutch, foot. Coach Scott’s rhythm.

He looked at her first.

Natalie’s whole body flinched at the sound—sharp, instinctive, like something ancient had just woken up inside her.

Then her eyes found Coach, and she just… stopped.

The terror drained out of her so fast it was dizzying.

Her shoulders loosened. Her breath slowed. She stared at him like she was afraid he might vanish if she blinked.

Coach moved closer, careful and slow, and sat on the stool beside her.

“Hey, kid,” he said quietly, voice warm and steady. “Mind if I sit?”

She shook her head — just barely. It was the first real movement she’d made in hours.

Travis didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe. Just watched.

“How are you feeling?” Coach asked.

Her answer came out hoarse and ragged: “Where am I?”

“You’re still in the cabin. Still with the team,” he said gently.

Her eyes flicked toward the center of the room — past Van, past Tai, past Misty — but there was no recognition in her face. No spark of familiarity.

And still, not even a glance at Travis.

“They keep staring at me,” she said. “But I don’t know them.”

Coach’s voice didn’t change. “That’s okay. That happens sometimes. You’ve been through something hard.”

Travis felt his fingers digging into his sleeves, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He needed to feel something solid.

Natalie’s voice dropped. “Why do I remember you?”

Coach smiled faintly, something sad in his eyes. “Maybe because I never stopped bugging you about stretching. Or because I kept you late after practice for mouthy comments.”

She gave him a half-breath that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe it was just air escaping her lungs in surrender. Whatever it was, it made Travis ache.

Then she whispered, barely audible:
“I feel like something bad is going to happen. Like… my dad’s coming.”

It was the first real word she’d said that had weight.

Dad.

Not he. Not someone. Not a shadow. A name. A wound.

Travis felt something hollow open inside him.

Coach didn’t blink. He reached out, rested a careful hand on her shoulder.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “He’s not coming. You’re safe, Natalie.”

She nodded, slow, but Travis could see the tension still in her jaw. The way she didn’t believe it yet.

She believed Coach was real.

But not the rest of them.

Not him.

———

The fire was burning again now, and the rest of the team sat around it, quiet and worn down.

It wasn’t officially a meeting, but everyone knew it was.

“She remembers her dad,” Van said, eyes on the flames. “That’s… that’s not nothing.”

“She remembers Coach,” Tai added, arms crossed. “But not us.”

“She looked at me like I was a threat,” Misty said, frustrated. “Like I was going to hurt her.”

“She doesn’t remember us yet,” Coach corrected gently.

Travis hadn’t said anything.

“She’s scared,” Van said. “Coach is the only one in this cabin who never raised his voice, never laughed at her when she got weird, never made her feel like she had to earn his kindness.”

“She trusts him,” Travis said finally. “Even when she doesn’t know who she is. She still trusts him.”

Misty frowned. “You’re saying the rest of us messed her up?”

“I’m saying…” Travis sighed. “She remembers who hurt her. And who didn’t. Everything else is noise.”

“She will come back,” Coach said. “But we don’t force it. We give her time. We speak softly. We make space.”

Van looked over at Travis. “Have you talked to her?”

He shook his head. “She doesn’t even look at me.”

“She will,” Van said. “You’re not a stranger. You’re just not where she can reach yet.”

“I don’t care if she remembers what we were,” Travis muttered. “I just want her to feel safe again.”

Everyone fell quiet.

No one knew how to do that.

———

It was late when the others finally drifted off. Travis sat by the window, fingers tucked into his sleeves, watching the moonlight spill across the snow.

His breath fogged the glass.

He didn’t move.

Across the room, Natalie slept. Or something close to it. She stirred now and then, murmuring soft, broken words too quiet to understand. He strained to hear anyway.

Van joined him eventually, pulling a blanket tight around her shoulders.

“She used to tell me stories,” he said, barely above a whisper. “About her dad. Always with this stupid laugh. Like she was daring me to take it seriously.”

“She made it funny,” Van said. “So she didn’t have to feel it.”

“She remembers him. And Coach. But not me.”

Van leaned her head against the wall. “Coach was safe. You were… something else.”

“What?”

“You were love,” she said softly. “And love’s a hell of a lot scarier than fear when everything inside you’s broken.”

Travis stared out at the trees.

“She used to call me before bed. Every night. Just to talk. She said it helped her sleep.”

“She’ll remember that,” Van said.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then we remind her. Until she does.”

He didn’t answer.

He just watched the dark.

Behind them, Natalie stirred again. Not a seizure this time. Just a flicker of a nightmare. Her body twisted under the blankets, and her voice broke out, desperate:

“Coach—?”

Travis turned.

But it faded before he could move.

He stayed where he was. Silent. Waiting.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe just her voice. Maybe just his name.

Maybe anything.

Chapter Text

The light in the cabin was a pale, silver smear through the frosted windows. Outside, the forest was still and white. Inside, everything felt quieter than usual — not the kind of silence that came from sleep, but the kind that came from holding your breath.

Natalie was awake.

She hadn’t said anything. She didn’t make a sound when Misty knelt beside the fire or when Van moved in her sleep. But her eyes were open, calm now. Alert.

And she was watching.

Not wide-eyed, panicked watching like before. Not the terrified, caged-animal kind. This was different. Her gaze flicked from face to face — Tai curled against the far wall, Misty whispering to herself, Van rubbing her eyes. She didn’t tense. She didn’t shrink away.

She was seeing them.

Really seeing them.

———

Coach noticed immediately.

He stepped into the cabin mid-morning, stomping the snow from his crutches, and paused when he caught sight of her. Natalie was upright, blankets pooled around her waist, legs pulled in.

She looked over when the door opened.

Not startled. Not bracing. Just… expectant.

Coach’s voice was warm. “Morning, Nat.”

She nodded slowly. “Hey.”

He crossed the room and settled into his usual stool beside her. She didn’t pull back.

“Better today?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

She looked around, blinking slowly. “That’s Van?”

Coach followed her gaze. “Yep.”

“She had glitter on her face at tryouts.”

Coach’s eyebrows lifted. “That sounds about right.”

Natalie swallowed. “She was nice. I think she let me copy her warm-up stretch.”

“You were always finding ways out of warm-ups.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “Because they were stupid.”

Coach chuckled softly. “There she is.”

Natalie’s smile faded, but her voice stayed steady. “Do the others know?”

Coach tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I’m starting to remember them.”

“They’ll figure it out soon.”

She looked down at her hands. “I think I want them to.”

———

By the time the sun was overhead, the whole cabin could feel the shift.

Natalie didn’t hide in the corner. She didn’t flinch when people walked past. When Misty brought her tea, she took it with both hands. When Tai asked if she needed anything, she shook her head gently.

And when Van leaned over and asked, “Hey, you remember anything about me yet?” — Natalie tilted her head and said, “Did you used to sing in the locker room?”

Van grinned. “Every chance I got.”

Natalie blinked. “It was terrible.”

“Okay, rude,” Van shot back, but she was smiling.

Even Tai looked relieved.

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But Natalie was beginning to swim back to the surface.

Travis watched it all from a quiet distance. He didn’t hover, didn’t try to insert himself. He just stayed nearby, heart aching, waiting.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted more — for her to remember him, or for her to not remember what she used to feel.

Because she hadn’t looked at him yet. Not once.

Until she did.

It was early evening, the light fading outside, when she crossed the cabin, sat down near the fire, and spoke.

“I know you,” she said quietly.
The words barely broke through the firelight, but Travis heard them like a pin drop in silence.

He turned his head slowly.

Natalie was wrapped tight in her blankets, sitting close beside him, but not touching. Her voice had been steady. Not confused. Not panicked. Just… certain.

“You’re Travis,” she said, eyes fixed on him. “Coach Martinez’s son.”

His throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“You always looked miserable at practice,” she said. “Like being there was slowly killing you.”

He cracked a faint smile. “That’s because it was.”

Natalie looked down at her hands, turning one palm up like she didn’t recognize it. “But you kept coming. Every day.”

Travis hesitated. “I didn’t want to. Not at first. My dad made me come to every practice, and I hated it. All of it. The yelling, the drills, the fake-ass team spirit stuff.”

“Then why’d you stay?”

Travis swallowed. “You.”

She looked at him. The firelight caught the gold in her hair and the bruised purple still clinging to the skin under her eyes.

“I didn’t get it at first,” he said, quieter now. “You were angry. Mean, sometimes. But you played like the only way to survive was to be the toughest person on the court. Like you had to earn every breath.”

Natalie didn’t speak, but she didn’t look away either.

“I knew that feeling,” he said. “I knew what it looked like when someone went home to something they couldn’t say out loud.”

Her eyes glistened — not with tears yet, just recognition.

“You weren’t afraid of me,” she said. “Even when I gave you every reason to be.”

“I never was.”

A long silence passed between them, filled only by the soft pop of burning logs.

Then Natalie said, “I remember something dumb.”

Travis’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Okay.”

“You tried to do a behind-the-back layup during a scrimmage that Coach Martinez- your dad forced you to play because Lottie didn’t show up to practice.”

He groaned instantly. “Nope. Don’t bring that up.”

“You tripped over your own feet and fell into the bleachers.”

“I had untied laces.”

“You had an ego,” she said, smiling just a little. “Misty screamed and tried to splint your ankle with popsicle sticks.”

“I think she was more excited about practicing first aid than actually helping me.”

“You told everyone you ‘meant to fall,’” she added.

“I was trying to distract the defense.”

Natalie gave a soft, breathy laugh — the first one in days.

It faded quickly, but the echo lingered.

Then her expression shifted. Grew heavy again. Her eyes dropped to the fire.

“When I first woke up,” she said quietly, “I didn’t know where I was. Everything felt wrong. Everyone was a stranger.”

Travis stayed still.

“I couldn’t remember anything real. But I knew something bad was coming. I thought my dad was on his way.”

Her voice cracked on the word dad.

“I thought I was in trouble,” she whispered. “That I’d said something, or messed something up. And I just knew he was going to show up and make me pay for it.”

She wiped at her nose, quick and angry.

“I kept calling for Coach Scott. Because I didn’t know anyone else. And I thought—” She broke off. “I thought if someone was coming through that door, I’d rather it be him.”

Travis blinked hard. “He’s not coming. Your dad. He’s not here. He’ll never be here.”

“I know that now,” she said. “But in that moment? I was twelve again. And everything in me believed he was coming to hurt me.”

Her shoulders folded tighter into themselves. Travis could feel the old fear hanging on her like static. Still clinging. Still humming beneath her skin.

“You’re safe,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.

After a long silence, she said, “I think I started remembering you when I heard your voice.”

His eyes flicked toward her.

“I didn’t know your name. But you said something, and I thought, That sound doesn’t scare me. That must mean something.”

Travis felt his chest ache — a deep, low throb that wouldn’t go away.

“I’ve always felt safe with you,” she added. “Even before I could admit it.”

“You never had to,” he said. “I knew.”

Another silence. But this one felt warmer.

Natalie looked at him again. “I think I loved you. Even then. I just didn’t know how to say it without feeling stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Travis said. “And I loved you too.”

He reached out, slow, and let his hand rest beside hers. She slid her fingers over his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “Of what else I’ll remember. Of what I’ll have to feel.”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Even if you forget me again. Even if it hurts.”

She leaned against his side — her head resting lightly on his shoulder, her breath slowing.

And when her eyes closed, she didn’t call for Coach Scott.

She didn’t flinch at the shadows.

She stayed with Travis.

The boy who saw her before she knew how to be seen

Chapter Text

The day passed without sunlight. Just a gray sky smothered by clouds and silence.

They didn’t talk much anymore — not unless they had to. Words cost energy, and warmth was a bigger priority. The fire was dying faster these days. Even with Travis and Tai hauling wood every morning, the logs were brittle and burned too quick. Cold had a way of stretching time.

Dinner was barely that — more boiled water with brittle herbs Misty insisted were still “effective.” There was no salt. No texture. Just steam and bitterness. But it was hot, and it filled their stomachs for long enough to quiet the ache.

They called it stew. They had to call it something.

Everyone sat around the fire in a loose, tired circle — Shauna cross-legged with her mug, Van hunched beside Tai, Misty perched stiffly with her clipboard nearby. Coach Scott sat near the door, as always, bundled in layers, a silent anchor.

And Natalie — for the second night in a row — sat with them.

Not off to the side. Not curled in blankets like a ghost. She was still wrapped up, her cheeks pale and hollow, but her spine was straight. Her eyes were open. She looked at people now. Watched their faces like she almost remembered them.

She took her mug from Misty without a word. The smell made her nose wrinkle.

Van gagged dramatically. “This tastes like boiled socks and regret.”

“I think my mouth is numb,” Tai muttered.

“I told you it’s mullein,” Misty snapped, crossing her arms. “It’s cleansing.”

“Is it supposed to sting?” Shauna asked flatly.

Natalie sniffed hers again. Then, dry as ash:
“Smells like Misty’s foot powder.”

The room froze. Four sets of eyes swung toward her at once.

Then Van snorted. Tai broke into a laugh. Shauna shook her head and leaned back.

“Oh my god,” Van grinned. “She’s back.”

Misty looked mortified. “It is not the same herbs! That is a totally different salve—”

“I’m just saying,” Natalie added, not looking up, “I’d drink your foot first.”

That nearly killed Tai. Even Coach — still seated on the bench by the door — exhaled something like a quiet laugh through his nose.

Natalie didn’t smile. But she didn’t flinch from the attention either. She just sat, calm and steady, hands wrapped around the tin mug.

Travis, from his place across the fire, felt a pang in his chest. It wasn’t relief. Not yet. But it was something close.

She was here.

Not fully. Not entirely. But enough.

———

After dinner, the fire burned low. The others drifted off, one by one — Shauna scribbling in her notebook before curling under her blanket; Lottie quiet in her corner; Tai and Van tangled in shared warmth near the window.

Coach remained at his spot on the bench, a calm presence. Always watching. Always inside. Always ready if she called for him — though she hadn’t today.

Travis stayed near the fire. He hadn’t spoken to Natalie alone since her third seizure. Not really. Not like before. But tonight… she hadn’t backed away. She’d sat with the group. She’d made a joke. And she was still awake.

So was he.

Natalie shifted beside the fire, her knees pulled close, hands still cradling her empty mug. She stared at the coals like she was trying to decode something ancient in their glow.

Then, finally, she said, “You used to come to practice.”

Travis blinked. His voice came slow. “Yeah.”

“You were always on the far bleachers.”

“I didn’t want to be seen.”

Natalie nodded. “You didn’t play.”

“No. I used to. Midfield. Till seventh grade.” He glanced at her. “Back injury. Screwed up a vertebra, and I couldn’t run without pain after that.”

Her brow furrowed, focused. “That’s why you sat with your hood up.”

“Yeah. My dad — Coach Martinez — made me go anyway. Said I needed to watch. ‘Observe,’ he called it. But really he just wanted to remind me of what I couldn’t do anymore.”

Natalie’s voice was quieter now. “I remember him yelling sometimes.”

“He yelled at everyone,” Travis muttered. “But he always kept it together at practice. Didn’t want to embarrass the team. At home was a different story.”

She didn’t push.

“I’d sit there during drills and count the steps,” Travis continued. “Remember where I used to mess up. I could see the exact pivot points, where my timing failed, which cones I’d trip over. Like a rerun on loop.”

He didn’t know why he was saying all this. Maybe because she was listening. Maybe because she hadn’t looked away.

“And then?” Natalie asked.

“And then I started watching you.”

Her head tilted slightly.

“You ran like you were trying to outrun something,” he said. “Didn’t coast. Didn’t fake it. You just moved like you were always halfway between escape and impact.”

Natalie didn’t answer for a long moment. Then: “I remember you, too.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Not all of it. Just flashes. But I remember your face. Your voice. I remember how you always looked annoyed and somehow shy at the same time.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s accurate.”

“I thought you were gonna trip over your own hoodie the first time you walked past me.”

“You mean in the locker hallway?” he asked.

Her eyes lit up, faint but real. “Yes. You were trying so hard not to look at me, you walked into the doorframe.”

Travis groaned. “I still have the bruise in my pride.”

Natalie leaned back, gaze still on the fire. “It’s like… there’s a map in my head, and half the street signs are missing. But I know the roads. I know they’re there.”

“You’ll get there,” he said softly.

She didn’t say anything else, but her breathing was slower now. Steadier.

Travis shifted just a little closer. Not touching her. Just close enough to feel the space shrink.

“I don’t remember everything yet,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said. Then quieter, “I want to know who I was. And who I was with.”

Travis glanced at her, heart tugging hard.

“You were someone who made me stop hating practices,” he said. “Even just from the bleachers.”

She turned her head slightly. Her eyes met his.

Then, gently, she nodded.

They sat in the low firelight, silent for a long while. Not asleep. Not talking. Just there.

And when Natalie’s eyes finally closed — slow and careful — she didn’t whisper for Coach. She didn’t panic.

She just stayed.

And so did he