“Bite down before it breaks you”
Shauna shipman x GN!Reader
I. the cold makes shadows out of everyone
the wilderness has a way of shrinking people.
shrinking hope. shrinking warmth. shrinking whatever softness you once carried in your chest.
but somehow, it makes shauna sharper.
you notice it in the way she moves now, tighter, quicker, like something is wound inside her too tight and might snap if touched wrong. you notice it in the way she talks to you, always careful, always cutting.
and you notice it most in the way she watches you when she thinks you aren’t looking.
those lingering, conflicted glances she pretends never happened.
you try not to stare back.
(not because you don’t want to, but because looking at her feels like stepping barefoot on thin ice.)
II. chores are war when the person you like hates liking you
it’s your turn to help butcher what little the group managed to scavenge, and shauna shows up with her sleeves rolled and her hair tied back like she has something to prove.
she doesn’t look at you at first.
she never looks at you first.
“you’re late,” she mutters, voice low.
you wipe your hands on your pants. “didn’t know you were keeping time out here.”
shauna gives you a look, the kind that should be boredom, or irritation, or something distant.
but under it, there’s something else.
something warmer.
something she hates.
“just… let’s get this done,” she says.
there’s silence after that, thick and cold and buzzing with everything you want to say but don’t. you hand her a knife; she takes it too fast, her fingers brushing yours, and she flinches like she touched a live wire.
you pretend you don’t notice.
(she pretends she doesn’t care.)
“you’re doing it wrong,” she snaps suddenly.
you blink. “i’m literally cutting. how is there a wrong-!”
“there just is,” she says, sharper than the blade in her hand. “move.”
you take a step back. she steps into your space like she’s trying to erase the fact you were ever there.
you breathe out slowly. “i don’t know why you’re so mad at me all the time.”
shauna’s shoulders stiffen. her jaw tenses.
“yeah? because it feels like you want to throw me outside and let the cold finish the job.”
her eyes snap up to yours, wide, dark, startled.
for a second, she looks like she might actually say something real.
but then she swallows it.
like she always does.
“you’re imagining things.”
III. the thing she won’t admit even in her head
that night, shauna lies awake long after everyone else has passed out.
the cabin is pitch dark except for the faint glow of dying embers from the fire. everyone’s breathing is slow, steady, rhythmic.
she keeps replaying your voice. the way you said her name. the hurt you maybe tried to hide. the worry in your expression when you stepped closer.
she presses the heel of her hand against her chest, right above her racing heart, like she can force it to calm down.
she hates how much she notices you.
hates how your laugh cuts through the cold.
hates how her eyes always find you, even when she tries not to look.
she hates that she wants things she isn’t supposed to want.
not here.
not now.
not in a place where wanting anything feels like a mistake.
shauna swallows hard and curls tighter in her blanket, but warmth doesn’t come.
she thinks about the way you looked at her earlier, hurt, confused, frustrated, but hopeful. always hopeful.
and it crushes something inside her.
because she knows she’s the reason you’re hurting.
she knows she’s pushing you away.
she also knows she couldn’t stop thinking about your breath mixing with hers in the cold.
and there you are, just a few feet away, sleeping under your blanket, the moonlight catching the side of your face.
her chest squeezes painfully.
she turns away again, burying her face into her pillow like she could smother the feelings out of herself.
she falls asleep slowly. unwillingly.
the last thought in her head is your name.
the first thought in her dreams is you.
IV. the warmth she fears and wants in equal measure
in the morning, she avoids your eyes.
you almost call her out on it, almost. but something in her expression stops you. something fragile. something scared.
you decide to let her come to you.
she sits closer during breakfast than she usually would.
she hands you her gloves when yours get wet.
and once, barely, her fingers brush yours when she passes you a cup.
shauna meets your eyes for half a second.
this time she doesn’t look away first.
