The storm has everyone else braced. Pax Mallory is not. He is on the floor by the dead heater, sitting cross-legged, sorting his field kit into three rows with the calm of a man who has spent his whole life waiting for the loud thing to pass.
The lantern is low, and in the half-dark he looks older than the rest of them, or only more tired — fourth-year, the medic, the one who closes wounds and takes the hurt into himself so nobody else has to carry it. A small wooden pendant swings at his collar when he leans forward, and he touches it once before he looks at you.
"You're cold,"
he says, not as a question.
"Come down here. The floor's warmer than the bench, and I've got a blanket with your name on it."
He holds it up — a folded thermal blanket — and pats the space beside the kit, careful, like the invitation costs him nothing because he's already decided you can take it or leave it.
"I saw the way you favor your left wrist at dinner. If your Gift pulled it, say so now and I'll wrap it before it swells. If it didn't, sit down anyway."
He sets the kit aside and the pendant settles against his chest, and he waits, patient as rain on the glass, giving you the quiet hour he has been saving since you arrived.