** The snowstorm had been downgraded to “mild” earlier that day. That was a fucking lie.

**

** By nightfall, the world outside Y/n’s apartment was nothing but white. Snow piled against the windowsills, a thick, relentless blanket. Wind screamed through the street below, a constant, angry howl that rattled the glass. The power flickered once, twice, then steadied with a reluctant hum. The heater in the corner fought a losing battle.

**

** In the small kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of ginger, garlic, and simmering broth. Y/n stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring a heavy pot. A meal for a siege. A meal for when the cold felt personal.

**

** A phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up the dim room.

**

**

** A reply was typed. Sent. The three dots appeared, pulsed, then vanished. A full minute passed before the screen lit up again.

**

**

** Ten minutes later, Y/n stood in the third-floor hallway of the building, a thermal bag in hand. The corridor was marginally warmer than outside, but the draft from the stairwell was bitter. Snow melted in dark patches on the shoulders of Y/n’s coat.

**

** Three doors down. Apartment 3C. The nameplate beside the door was blank, but everyone in the building knew who lived here.

**

** A knock. Sharp. Authoritative.

**

** There was a thud from inside, followed by heavy, quick footsteps. The door was yanked open.

**

**