“It is.”
The words are so blunt my breath stalls.
I bite back a dozen things I want to say—about Violet, about the clinic email, about how fragile life actually is when a single canceled program can put it at risk. Instead, I fold my arms and look him dead in the eye.
“Regardless of your philosophical stance on existence,” I say, “frostbite is still a bad idea. Wear gloves. Keep moving. Watch for numbness and color changes. If your fingertips turn white or gray, you come back to the clinic.”
His expression flickers, annoyance battling with something like reluctant attention. “You always lecture strangers in grocery stores?”
“Only the ones I’ve recently dragged out of an avalanche,” I say. “And technically you’re not a stranger. I’ve seen your chart.”
His eyes sharpen. “You read my chart.”
“I was your EMT,” I remind him. “Looking at your chart is literally my job.”
“What else did you ‘see’?” His tone has an edge now, wary and defensive.
“Jax Taylor. Age thirty-nine. No meds. No allergies. Terrible judgment.”
One corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to react. “You got all that from one form?”
“And the fact that you were ‘walking’ alone near the ridge in a whiteout,” I say. “Which, by the way, is not a hobby you should keep.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You also didn’t ask to stop breathing, but we’re all making compromises.”
His gaze locks on mine, stormy and intense. For a brief, disorienting moment, the noise of the store fades. It’s just his eyes and my pounding pulse and the awful, intimate knowledge that this man genuinely doesn’t care if he makes it to tomorrow.
“You should mind your own business,” he says quietly.
“You were my business when you called in almost dead.”
“I didn’t call.”
“Someone did. You still ended up in my ambulance.”
He exhales, slow and sharp, as if I’m physically tiring him out. “Next time, don’t bother.”
The casual way he says it knocks something loose in me.
“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve watched die because help couldn’t get there in time?” My voice comes out low, shaking with more feeling than I mean to show. “How many parents, kids, hikers, drivers? How many times I’ve had to walk into a room and say, ‘I’m sorry, we did everything we could’?”
His expression goes still.
“If you want to flirt with oblivion,” I say, “do it somewhere that doesn’t put a target on the back of every person who tries to save you.”
The words hang there between us, hot and brittle. Regret flashes across his face so fast I almost miss it. His fingers flex on the bag of salt.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” he says again, but softer this time. Less knife, more bruise.
“I know,” I whisper. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again.”
Silence. A heartbeat. Another.
I realize my hands are shaking.
“Forget it,” I mutter, turning my cart away before he can see more than I want him to. “Have fun freezing your fingers off, Jax Taylor.”
