"Doesn't matter." Jason's gaze locks onto mine, dark and absolute. "He comes looking, he won't get past me. You understand?"
I nod, throat tight. I believe him. That's the terrifying part, I believe him completely.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then returns to his breakfast like the conversation didn't just rearrange something fundamental inside me.
I finish eating in a daze, hyper-aware of every small movement. The way his shoulders shift when he reaches for his coffee. The scarred knuckles curled around his fork. The controlled strength in the line of his jaw.
He's dangerous. I knew that the second I saw him. But watching him now—patient and deliberate—I'm starting to understand that the danger isn't aimed at me. It's aimed at anything that might threaten me.
After breakfast, I insist on washing dishes. He lets me, leaning against the counter with fresh coffee, watching. I'm extremely conscious of his attention—the weight of it, the way it never wavers. Like I'm the most important thing in this cabin, this mountain, this entire snowbound world.
I'm rinsing the last plate when my foot slips on a damp patch of floor. I yelp, start to fall—
And suddenly his hands are on my waist, spanning it completely, steadying me before I even register the movement. He's close now, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the coffee and woodsmoke andhim.
"Careful," he murmurs, voice low and rough.
I freeze, plate forgotten, every nerve ending alive with his touch. His hands are huge, firm, and gentle. I can feel the leashed power in them.
My breath catches. I'm suddenly, vividly aware of my body—the way the thermal shirt clings to my curves, how soft I must feel under his palms, the way my heart is thundering so loud he must be able to hear it.
"I'm okay," I manage. My voice comes out too breathy. "You can—"
He releases me slowly, like he's reluctant to let go. Steps back just enough to give me space, but his gaze stays locked on mine.
"You keep doing that," he says quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Apologizing. For taking up space. For existing." His jaw tightens. "You don't have to. Not here."
I turn away before he can see the sudden sting of tears, busying myself with drying the plate even though my hands are shaking.
Behind me, he's quiet. Giving me time. Giving me space to break down or pull myself together, whichever I need.
I choose the latter. Barely.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For..." I gesture helplessly at the cabin, the breakfast, the borrowed clothes. Him. "All of it."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't need to thank me for basic decency."
"Maybe not. But I'm going to anyway."
I hear him move, feel him stop just behind me. Close enough that I could lean back and touch him. Close enough that I'm hyperaware of the space between us, charged and fragile and impossible to ignore.
I turn to face him, the dish towel still clutched in my hands. "Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"My name isn't Emily." The words come out in a rush. "I lied. When you asked. I was scared and I just—I said the first thing that came to mind."
He's quiet for a moment, dark eyes searching mine. "What is it?"
"Nicola." I swallow. "Nicola Jackson."
