“I’ve got it.” My pride makes one last desperate stand.
He waits a moment, then says: “You clearly don’t.”
He reaches for my jacket and I manage that part myself, shrugging it off with whatever dignity I have left. But then I try to pull off my wet thermal layer and everything goes spectacularly wrong.
The fabric is clingy from sweat. It sticks to my skin, twists as I try to pull it up. I get it halfway over my head and then it just stops. Stuck. My arms are trapped above me, the fabric bunched around my shoulders and face. I can’t see. I can’t even breathe properly.
I definitely can’t get free.
This is it. This is how I die. Suffocated by my own thermal underwear in a stranger’s foyer while he watches.
“Um.” My voice is muffled by wet polyester. “I’m stuck.”
Silence. Probably he’s reconsidering his good Samaritan impulses right about now.
“I can’t get it off,” I add, because apparently I need to narrate my own humiliation. “Could you just--oh my God--”
I wonder then what will kill me first.
The suffocation, or the mortification?
I suddenly feel his hands on the twisted fabric. He untangles the mess I’ve made with what feels like ease, like he rescues incompetent researchers from their own clothing on a regular basis.
The thermal layer comes free and I immediately cross my arms over my sports bra, face absolutely flaming.
At least I’m warming up. Pretty sure my face is generating enough heat to power a small city right now.
“Thanks,” I mumble to the floor, because I literally cannot make eye contact.
He moves toward my pants and I jerk backward instinctively. Which is a mistake, because coordination is apparently another casualty of hypothermia. My feet tangle and I lose my balance completely.
He catches me with one hand on my upper arm. His grip is firm, steadying, and oh God, so warm. So strong. His fingers easily wrap around my entire bicep and my stomach is starting to do this weird flip and--
Absolutely not. We are NOT doing this. You are hypothermic and helpless and wearing a sports bra in a stranger’s house.
This is not sexy.
This is a SURVIVAL SITUATION.
But my body apparently didn’t get the memo because I can feel heat flooding through me that has nothing to do with getting out of wet clothes and everything to do with the fact that I’m suddenly, horrifyingly aware of how close he is. And how good he smells. And how his thumb is resting against my bare skin just above where my thermal layer ended.
Panic does what panic does best: makes me lash out.
“Let go of me!” It comes out as a hiss, sharp and defensive and completely disproportionate to the situation.
He drops my arm immediately, stepping back with his hands raised slightly. Not quite surrender, but definitely retreat.
The absence of his touch feels like a loss, which makes me even more furious with myself.
Great job, Sorrel!
He literally just saved you from face-planting and you snapped at him like a feral cat.
Really cementing that ‘competent professional researcher’ image.
The lights flicker, then die completely.
I’m not sure whether to feel relief or panic.
