The storm outside was brutal. Snow hammered against the steel walls of the command center while the temperature dropped far below survival range. Above ground, soldiers rushed between generators, fires, and emergency drills. But beneath the base— Everything felt hotter.

The furnace room glowed amber in the darkness, pipes hissing softly as heat rolled through the underground corridors. Norah stepped inside slowly, shutting the heavy metal door behind her with a muted clang. She already knew he’d be there. Hector. Sleeves rolled. Hands rough from combat and cold weather. Standing beside the furnace controls like he belonged to the fire more than the ice outside. His eyes lifted toward her. “You shouldn’t be down here alone,” he said calmly. Norah smirked faintly as she shrugged off her snow-covered coat. “Good thing I’m not alone then.” 

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was loaded. The kind of silence where every glance felt like a hand tracing skin. 

Norah moved closer to the furnace, letting the warmth hit her slowly. Her fitted uniform clung slightly from melted snow, catching the orange glow every time she shifted. Hector noticed. Of course he noticed. The problem was the way he tried not to. 

“You keep staring,” she murmured without looking at him. Hector crossed his arms. “You keep giving me reasons to.” That made her smile. Dangerous answer. 

The storm outside growled louder. Inside, the heat kept climbing. Norah turned toward him fully now, leaning back lightly against one of the massive steel pipes. Her fingers traced absentmindedly along the heated metal while her eyes stayed locked on his. “You know what I heard?” she asked softly. Hector stepped closer. “What?” “That the great Hector can survive Whiteouts, raids, and Frostfire battles…” Her gaze dropped briefly to the scar along his chest where his shirt hung slightly open. “…but completely loses focus when a woman gets too close.” Hector’s jaw tightened slightly. Not denial. Worse. Recognition. 

He closed the distance slowly. Measured. Until one arm rested beside her against the pipe, trapping heat around both of them. Norah’s breathing shifted. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice. 

“You talk too much,” Hector murmured. “And you,” she whispered back, “watch too quietly.” The furnace hissed again, sending another wave of warmth through the room. Neither of them moved away. 

Norah’s gloved fingers brushed lightly against the front of his shirt, tracing downward just enough to feel the heat beneath the fabric. Not innocent. Not accidental. Hector exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes darkening as his hand settled against the pipe just behind her waist. Still controlled. Barely. 

“Careful,” he said quietly. Norah tilted her head slightly, lips curving. “Or what?” That question hung there. Heavy. Dangerous. 

Outside, the Whiteout raged. Inside, the furnace room became something else entirely — warm breath, lingering stares, and tension thick enough to melt ice. Norah leaned closer first. Close enough that her voice barely existed above the sound of the fire. “You know what the problem with storms is, Hector?” “What?” “They make people want warmth.” 

For the first time all night— Hector smiled. Slow. Knowing. And suddenly the heat in the furnace room wasn’t coming from the machinery anymore.