Hours pass in a blur of unpacking. I carry box after box inside until only one remains. The light outside has dimmed. The cold has sharpened. The snow on the walk has hardened into an almost invisible slick.
I reach for the door, ready to grab the last load.
I make it halfway to the trunk when my boot hits a patch of ice.
My foot skids.
My balance vanishes.
The world tilts in one violent swoop, cold air rushing past my ears.
My stomach drops and a shocked sound tears from my throat.
But I never hit the ground.
A pair of strong arms wraps around my waist, lifting me off the ice like I weigh nothing at all. One hand braces between my shoulder blades, the other grips my hip, holding me against a wall of heat and muscle and breath.
For a heartbeat, I’m suspended. Weightless. Held.
My palms flatten against solid chest, and when I look up, gray eyes stare down at me from only inches away.
And everything inside me goes quiet.
Not calm.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet. Like my entire body recognizes him before my mind catches up.
My breath stutters.
His gaze doesn’t waver. His jaw tightens. I feel the tension coil off him in waves. Heat, irritation, and something else.
He doesn’t speak.
Not until I do.
“Sorry,” I whisper, trying to steady myself. “The ice—”
His arms don’t move.
Then, finally, he speaks. Almost annoyed.
Like it costs him something to say it at all.
“Careful. You always this reckless?”
I’m still wrapped in his arms, chest pressed to his, my fingers curled into the flannel like they’re not ready to let go.
My heart is doing something wild and stupid in my ribs.
I tilt my head back, meeting that storm-gray stare.
“Guess I like to make an entrance.”
His jaw flexes. His grip tightens, just slightly. Like he isn’t sure whether to set me down or hold on longer.
“Next time, wear boots that can handle Hope Peak.”
