She shoulders her backpack, grabs her bottle, and heads to the door.
She hesitates there—looking at me like she’s memorizing my face—then heads out to the waiting bus.
The door clicks shut behind her.
The quiet that follows feels heavier than the storm I fought last night.
I stare at the clinic email again, the letters smearing together as my eyes sting.
Later. I’ll deal with it later. After groceries. After coffee. After pretending, for one more hour, that the world isn’t shifting beneath our feet.
I grab my keys.
If I’m going to panic, I can at least do it while buying practical things—like off-brand cereal and the cheap coffee that tastes like regret.
***
The grocery store is busier today, everyone stocking up in case the roads close again. Carts rattle over wet tile. Boots squeak. Kids fuss. Someone laughs too loudly near the deli.
I move on autopilot—milk, bread, eggs, cheap coffee, vegetables that are more aspirational than realistic. I’m standing in front of the freezer section debating between store-brand frozen peas and the slightly more expensive mixed vegetables when I feel it.
That prickling awareness. Like the air changed.
I glance down the aisle.
He’s there.
The man from the snow. From the clinic bed. Avalanche Guy, my brain supplies helpfully.
He’s in a dark jacket, hood down, damp hair pushed back hastily like he didn’t bother to look in a mirror. His hands are bare, fingers still reddened and rough from frostbite and rewarming. He’s studying a shelf of canned soup like it personally offended him.
My heart does a stupid little stutter.
I consider turning around. Walking away. Pretending I didn’t see him.
But then I remember the chart from last night—Taylor, Jaxprinted neatly at the top. Age, emergency contact blank. No local address on file, just the ski lodge listed as his employer.
Jax. Of course the brooding avalanche walker is named Jax.
He reaches for a heavy bag of rock salt with those raw hands, and my professional instincts slam harder than my common sense.
“You shouldn’t be lifting that,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth.
He stiffens, hand closing around the bag. His gaze cuts to me, sharp and guarded.
For a second, I see recognition flicker there. Then it hardens into something cooler.
“You again,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
His jaw tightens.
I step closer, nodding at his hands. “You need to keep those warm. You were borderline frostbite yesterday. Carrying twenty pounds of ice melt with bare fingers is not recommended follow-up care.”
“I’ll live,” he says flatly.
“Not if you keep treating your body like it’s disposable.”
