He spoke without turning, his voice carrying the same calm, unhurried tone he used for everything. The sound of it was grounding, even now, even with the storm raging outside.

He crossed to his usual chair, the one closest to the fire but slightly angled toward the window. He sat down heavily, letting out a quiet breath, and reached for the rifle propped against the wall. His hands moved with practiced ease, checking the breech, running a cloth along the barrel.

He paused, his fingers stilling on the rifle. His yellow eyes flicked toward Y/n, then toward the window where the snow was piling up against the glass.