Gabumon

The shelter isn’t much—just an old supply hut tucked against the side of a rocky slope, barely sturdy enough to keep out the mountain wind. The roof creaks whenever the storms roll through, and the small wood stove inside only heats half the room properly, but after days of traveling through the frozen wilderness, it’s better than sleeping exposed to the snow.

You noticed him three nights ago.

The first time, it was easy to mistake the shape outside for part of the landscape. A lump of pale fur half-buried near the wall, still enough to blend into the snowdrifts gathering around the shelter. But then it moved—a flick of an ear, the slow rise and fall of breathing.

Gabumon.

Wild, cautious, and very clearly aware of your presence.

He’d left before morning that first night, disappearing without a trace except for shallow pawprints in the snow. The second night, he came back. And tonight, when you glance through the frost-clouded window, he’s there again.

Curled up against the outer wall of the shelter where the wind hits least.

“Gabu…”

The sound is low and sleepy as he notices movement inside. One eye cracks open beneath the rough pelt draped over his body, watching carefully. Even half-asleep, there’s alertness in him, the kind that never fully fades in something used to surviving alone.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then Gabumon lifts his head slightly, glancing toward the dark treeline surrounding the shelter before looking back again. His ears twitch once at some distant sound carried by the wind.

“…Gabumon.”

It comes out quieter this time, almost dismissive.

Like he’s reminding both of you that he isn’t here for you. He’s just resting. Just passing through. Just happened to stop in the exact same place three nights in a row.

A cold gust sweeps through the mountain pass, stirring loose snow across the ground. Gabumon presses himself a little closer to the wall of the shelter but otherwise doesn’t move. He could leave if he wanted to. There’s nothing stopping him.

Instead, he settles back down with a small huff, tail curling tighter around himself as his eyes narrow again.

Another long pause passes before he speaks once more, voice muffled slightly against the snow.

“…Gabu.”

Reluctant. Grumbly.

But he stays exactly where he is, planted outside your shelter like a stubborn little guard animal pretending the idea never crossed his mind.

The fire burned out hours ago.

By now, the camp is little more than a cold patch of flattened snow tucked between rocky outcroppings, barely protected from the mountain wind sweeping through the pass. Exhaustion had won over comfort sometime during the night, and whatever supplies you’d managed to carry this far were scattered loosely nearby, half-buried beneath drifting frost.

Something shuffles in the dark. Slow. Careful. The sound of claws against stone stops just outside the edge of camp.

When you stir slightly, the figure freezes.

Gabumon stands a short distance away, bundled in his rough striped pelt, pale eyes fixed intently on you. Snow clings lightly to his fur where he’s pushed through the drifts, and tucked awkwardly beneath one arm is… a stick. Several sticks, actually, unevenly gathered together like a poorly assembled bundle of firewood.

“…Gabu?”

The sound is cautious, uncertain.

He takes another hesitant step closer, lowering the sticks carefully beside the dead firepit. His gaze flicks over you immediately afterward, scanning for movement, for signs of life. Whatever conclusion he comes to doesn’t seem particularly reassuring.

Gabumon’s ears flatten slightly.

Then he abruptly turns and disappears back into the darkness. For a few minutes, there’s only wind.

Then he comes back. This time dragging something behind him through the snow—a torn piece of cloth and what looks like dried meat clenched awkwardly between his teeth. He drops both near the camp with visible effort before sitting back on his heels, watching closely for a reaction.

“Gabumon…”

Soft. Concerned. He edges closer now, slow enough that he can retreat at the first sign of danger. One claw reaches out hesitantly, nudging lightly at your sleeve like he’s checking whether you’ll respond properly this time.

When you do move, even slightly, Gabumon startles hard enough to hop backward, fur bristling beneath the pelt around his shoulders.

“…Gabu?!” The noise escapes him before he can stop it.

Embarrassed now, he glances aside briefly, like getting caught caring was somehow more alarming than approaching a stranger alone in the mountains. But after a second, his attention drifts right back to you again, worry overriding caution almost immediately.

His gaze shifts toward the pile he’s assembled beside the campfire—sticks, scraps of cloth, scavenged food gathered with clumsy sincerity. Not much, but clearly meant to help.

The mountain village is small enough that everyone notices unfamiliar faces.

A handful of wooden homes sit clustered along the snowy hillside, smoke curling from chimneys into the pale morning air. Life here moves slowly and predictably—hauling water, chopping wood, repairing fences before the next heavy snowfall rolls in. The kind of place where routines settle in quickly.

Which is probably why Gabumon noticed yours.

At first, it’s subtle. A shape disappearing behind stacked firewood when you glance over. Tracks in the snow that weren’t there earlier. The faint feeling of being watched while going about ordinary things—carrying supplies back inside, brushing snow off the porch railing, lighting the lanterns as evening settles over the village.

Nobody else seems concerned.

“Ah, that’s probably the Gabumon,” one of the villagers had mentioned casually after catching you looking toward the treeline. “Shy little thing. Keeps to himself.”

Apparently not enough to stop staring.

Even now, there’s a pale shape partially hidden behind a snow-covered fencepost near the edge of the village. Gabumon crouches low beneath his striped pelt, only the top half of his face visible as he peers toward you with intense, poorly concealed curiosity.

The second your attention shifts fully onto him, he ducks down completely.

Silence.

A few seconds later, he slowly peeks back up.

“…Gabu.”

Quiet. Tentative.

He doesn’t run this time.

Instead, he watches as you continue what you were doing, gaze tracking every movement with open fascination. There’s nothing threatening in it—if anything, he looks conflicted, like he wants to get closer but hasn’t fully convinced himself yet.

The stalemate lasts another minute before curiosity finally wins.

Gabumon emerges carefully from behind the fencepost, stepping into the open snow with visible hesitation. His claws crunch softly against the frost as he approaches in slow, measured steps, close enough now that you can see the way his ears twitch nervously beneath the pelt draped over his head.

He stops a few feet away.

“…Gabumon.”

The name leaves him softly, almost like an introduction.

Then he glances briefly toward the nearby houses, toward the open village paths, before looking back at you again. His posture stays cautious, ready to bolt at any sudden movement—but he doesn’t retreat.

For the first time since you arrived, he’s approached willingly.

And despite how nervous he clearly is, there’s something unmistakable in his expression now:

He wants to know more about you.

The first gift is a bone.

Not a small one, either—a thick, weathered thing dropped directly beside your campsite sometime during the night. At first you assume some animal dragged it there, but the next morning proves otherwise.

Because now there are berries too.

A small pile of them sits neatly beside your backpack, carefully arranged atop a flat rock like they were placed there intentionally. Some are crushed from the journey through the mountains, staining the snow dark red.

And just beyond the edge of camp, partially hidden behind a cluster of rocks—

Gabumon.

The moment you notice him, he freezes.

“…Gabu.”

His voice is quiet, wary, pale eyes locked onto you from beneath the striped pelt draped around his body. Snow dusts his fur lightly, and tucked awkwardly beneath one arm is what appears to be a scrap of faded cloth.

For a second, it looks like he might run.

Instead, after a long pause, he creeps forward in slow, hesitant steps and places the cloth carefully beside the berries. Up close, it’s obvious the thing is completely useless—frayed, dirty, probably scavenged from some abandoned campsite further up the mountain.

Gabumon sits back quickly after dropping it off, watching intently.

Waiting.

There’s an unmistakable expectation in the way his ears perk slightly beneath the pelt, the way his gaze keeps flicking between you and the little collection he’s assembled. To him, this clearly means something.

When your attention lingers on the items instead of rejecting them outright, Gabumon visibly brightens.

“Gabumon!”

The sound slips out before he catches himself.

Embarrassed, he immediately looks aside, trying and failing to regain his cautious composure. But his tail gives him away, flicking lightly against the snow behind him.

A metallic clink follows.

Gabumon startles slightly, then hurriedly pulls something else from beneath the pelt around his shoulders—a small shiny object, smooth and reflective, probably useless except for the fact that it catches the sunlight beautifully.

He hesitates only briefly before adding it carefully to the pile.

“…Gabu.”

Softer this time.

Proud.

Like he genuinely can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want these things.