Thin Ice

Outside, the wind blew in relentless gusts, its howl weaving through the cracks in the shelter's walls. The snowstorms over the past few days had worsened, frosting the orchards and fields in layers of ice. Where once the courtyard felt buzzing with activity, it now appeared subdued—people moving slowly in heavier coats, rationing every bit of warmth. The sharpened hush of winter magnified the creaking of boards underfoot and the whisper of breath in the cold air.

Leila stood in the main hall, facing a small gathering of community members. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting pale light on her stern expression. In her gloved hand, she clutched a list of ration allocations—meager amounts of dried fruit, grains, and canned goods that had to last them until they could scavenge more, or until the snows eased enough for a proper harvest in the spring. It was one of the hardest announcements she'd had to make in weeks.

"…I'm sorry," she said, voice echoing slightly in the large space. "But we can't maintain the same portions. If we don't cut back now, we'll be out of food before the worst of winter hits. Everyone gets half rations until further notice. We'll rotate hot meals—one communal stew a day."

A collective wave of discontent rippled through the group. Some older survivors nodded in grim acceptance, recalling past hardships. Others muttered curses, or demanded to know why more supply runs hadn't been made before the snow locked them in. Tamsin's faction, once again, voiced dissatisfaction. "People will starve at this rate," Tamsin growled. Mark tried to placate her, explaining the dire constraints.

Leila kept her posture rigid, unwilling to show doubt. Someone has to lead, she reminded herself. "We're exploring every option. Mark's proposed more frequent hunts or fishing if the river's not fully frozen. We might also scavenge further for small game. But we need volunteers."

A murmur spread. It was no secret that hunting in this cold could be lethal if a team got stranded, or if they encountered a roaming pack of undead. Ration cuts, though miserable, might still be safer than gambling lives on a winter expedition.

Mark stepped forward, clearing his throat. "We've got decent hunters—myself, a few watchers. If we head into the deeper woods, we might bag deer or small game. But it's risky. Snow covers traps, and zombies could be hidden behind drifts. Not to mention, a broken ankle out there is as good as a death sentence."

Fiona, standing off to the side with a medical kit slung over her shoulder, interjected softly, "If anyone's injured, our antibiotic stocks are pitiful. Even a scratch could become infected in this weather." She cast a pointed look at Leila. "You know how quickly that can turn fatal."

Leila exhaled, shoulders slumping a fraction. Thin ice indeed—both figuratively and literally. "We'll do small hunting parties, no more than three at a time. Quick in, quick out. I can't force volunteers, but if no one hunts, we'll rely solely on our diminishing stash."

Tension bristled in the hall. Some watchers mumbled that they'd volunteer, but only if they felt confident no raiders lurked. Others argued it was too dangerous. The debate continued until Leila finally raised her voice. "Enough. We'll post a sign-up. Hunting parties start at dawn. Everyone else—prepare for half rations. Let's do what we must to survive."

A subdued acceptance fell over them. People drifted away to huddle near fires or bunk rooms, muttering about the cold and the next day's uncertain prospects. Mark lingered with a few watchers, finalizing details for the hunts, while Fiona retreated to the infirmary to restock the minimal supplies she had left.

By the time the lanterns dimmed and most survivors bunked down, Leila was running on nerves and stubborn determination. She paced a drafty corridor of the main building, the wooden floor creaking underfoot. Snow hammered the roof in bursts, rattling windows. Tamsin's complaints echoed in her head, as did the raw frustration of ordinary folks forced to eat half rations. Are we truly going to endure this winter? she wondered, a pang of guilt stabbing her chest.

In the dimness, a figure emerged at the far end of the corridor. Kai, of course—quiet footfalls and that calm, steady aura. He approached, the near darkness granting an intimacy to their surroundings. The single flickering lamp overhead cast their shadows tall on the walls. Each step he took seemed to resonate, and her heart thudded in response. Though she tried to remain stoic, her guard wavered.

He paused a couple of feet away, hands shoved in coat pockets for warmth. "Long day," he remarked softly, voice subdued but warm. She recognized the compassion beneath it, an unspoken offer of solace.

Leila inhaled, tension coiled in her shoulders. "Long day," she echoed. "Worse days ahead." Her voice held a note of weariness she couldn't hide.

Kai nodded, searching her face. "I know. But we'll manage, like we always do."

A pause stretched, thick with what neither dared to fully voice. This time, it was Leila who broke the silence. "I—" Her breath caught, eyes drifting to the worn floor. She recalled how he'd been at her side, calmly fending off frostbiters, how he had gently but decisively handled every threat since joining the community. How safe she sometimes felt in his presence, even as a ghostly memory of Jace's betrayal lingered like a disease in her mind.

Kai sensed her inner struggle. "You can talk to me, you know," he murmured, stepping a half-step closer. He didn't reach out, respecting the boundary she often clung to.

Her throat tightened. A thousand thoughts swirled: I trust you more than I want to, I'm afraid of what that means, I can't forget Jace and Ellie betraying me when I needed them most. The words tangled into a knot. "I—just wanted to say… Thank you. For everything," she managed at last, voice trembling. "You've… been there. Through all this chaos."

He offered a tentative smile, relief flickering in his gaze. "We're in this together, Leila. You're not alone."

A wave of emotion surged in her chest, warmth battling her old wounds. The corridor's lamp cast a faint glow on them both, and for a heartbeat, she considered stepping forward, letting that glimmer of closeness bloom. The slow-burn tension that had simmered for weeks felt near a tipping point. She parted her lips, feeling on the cusp of a confession—maybe not love, but at least an admission of how much his presence meant.

But in that same instant, an image of Jace's mocking grin and Ellie's cold eyes from her past overcame her, a brutal reminder that love and trust had once cost her everything. Her breath hitched. She recoiled inwardly, the old fear roaring back like a cruel tide.

She forced her jaw to set, a wave of stoicism flooding her features. "I—I should get some rest," she blurted, turning away abruptly. "There's a lot to do tomorrow. The hunts, the watchers, the rations."

Kai didn't try to stop her. He simply watched, concern mingled with acceptance in his eyes. "Right," he said gently, stepping back. "Good night."

She nodded curtly, not looking at him, then hastened down the corridor, each step echoing in the stillness. Regret and self-preservation warred within her. I almost told him something real. But she couldn't—not yet, not while the memory of Jace's final betrayal hovered like a specter.

By the time she reached her small office-like quarters, the tension in her chest felt suffocating. She leaned on the rickety desk, exhaling. Outside, the wind picked up once more, howling through the cracks. She imagined the rest of the compound hunkering down in bunk rooms or corners near the communal fires, pulling blankets tight and cursing empty stomachs. A quiet desperation lingered in the hallways—thin ice, indeed. The season had only just begun, and already resources were dangerously low, hunts were risky, and rumor of scavengers loomed.

Leila rubbed her hands together for warmth. She couldn't let them see how worried she was. People needed her strong, needed her to hold the community together through this bitter cold. And if that meant burying her own feelings for now, so be it. Even if a part of her yearned to reach out to Kai, let him help carry the weight. Another night alone, another day forging forward in the morning.

Outside, snow battered the shelter's walls, and watchers braced for the night's shift. Mark was likely finalizing the morning hunting schedule. Fiona might be double-checking the infirmary. Meanwhile, a swirl of voices whispered in corners about whether they had enough to survive the weeks ahead.

The corridor scene played in her mind, haunting her. She almost let him in, almost opened a door that had been sealed by heartbreak for so long. But fear of repeating old nightmares kept her from stepping through. Tomorrow, they'd face fresh challenges: hunts, watchers scanning for undead, ration complaints, and the unknown threat of scavengers crossing the frozen fields. She prayed their precarious balance would hold, that the shelter wouldn't crack under winter's strain.

Quietly, she moved to the single window, brushing aside frost-laced glass to peer into the darkness. Snow drifted thick, swirling across faint lamplight in the courtyard, where watchers on the fence stood silent vigil. A heaviness pressed on her heart, but she stiffened her resolve. This was how it had to be: a stoic leader, guiding them through the bleakest season yet—uncertain if they'd endure, uncertain if she'd ever let herself trust again.