"You're lost," he says.
I nod, teeth chattering. I didn't realize I was shaking this badly until now, my muscles even feel tight and exhausted.
He doesn't ask how it happened. Doesn't tell me I shouldn't have wandered off the trail. Doesn't say anything at all.
He just moves.
His hands close around my upper arms, firm and steady, and he turns me slightly, angling my body so the wind hits his back instead of mine. The relief is immediate, the sharp bite of the wind suddenly blocked by his size.
Then he shrugs out of his coat.
"Wait," I manage, the word sluggish. "You'll—"
He doesn't respond. He just wraps the coat around my shoulders before I can finish the sentence, settling the heavy weight of it over me like a blanket.
"I'm fine," he says quietly.
He is, impossibly.
Beneath the coat, he's wearing a thick flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the cold. His forearms are corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, completely unbothered by the freezing air. He doesn't shiver. Doesn't tense against the wind.
He looks like the cold doesn't touch him at all.
He bends slightly and picks up Bolt's leash from where it's trailing in the snow, then straightens and hands it to me without a word. I take it automatically, my numb fingers clumsy around the fabric loop.
Bolt wags his tail, panting happily.
The man places one broad hand between my shoulder blades and begins guiding me forward.
I go. I just follow his lead, one foot in front of the other, his hand a constant presence against my back.
The storm is howling now, wind whipping snow into horizontal sheets that sting my face and blur everything beyond a few feet. I can barely see where I'm stepping. My legs feel like lead, each step requiring effort I'm not sure I have.
But he moves with absolute certainty, never hesitating, never slowing, like he knows this forest by heart even in a whiteout.
Bolt trots beside us, unbothered, his tail still wagging.
I don't know how long we walk.
Time feels strange, stretched thin by adrenaline and cold and exhaustion. My legs are shaking. My lungs burn with each breath. The hem of my jeans is frozen stiff, scraping against my ankles with every step.
My thoughts are slow and sluggish, like the cold is seeping into my brain.
Then, through the white, I see a cabin.
Low and solid, built from dark logs that look weathered and permanent, like they've been here longer than the forest around them. Smoke rises from a stone chimney, a thin gray line cutting up through the falling snow. The windows glow faintly with warm light.
It looks like something out of a storybook.
Safe.
He guides me toward the door, his hand never leaving my back, and I follow numbly, my boots dragging through the snow.
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost stumble.
My vision blurs, tears or snowmelt or exhaustion, I'm not sure. He stops at the door and looks down at me.
His pale eyes hold mine for a long moment, steady and unreadable, and I realize distantly that I still don't know his name.
