A soft chill races through me.
If the sensor he was adjusting yesterday—the one that almost cost him his life—was his design…
Whoishe?
Before I can think better of it, I reach for the notebook, scanning another page. More data. More designs. A partially sketched device that looks a lot like the one clipped to his pack last night.
“Don’t touch that.”
His voice hits me like a door slamming shut.
I turn sharply. He fills the doorway, broad-shouldered and silent as a shadow. His hair is damp from a shower, the ends brushing the collar of a dark T-shirt that fits a little too well, revealing muscles he absolutely should not be allowed to have considering how irritating he is.
His expression is carved from ice.
I lift my hands slightly, palms open. “I wasn’t going to break it.”
“You shouldn’t be in here at all.”
The words slice, clean and cold.
The defensive part of me flares. “Your door wasn’t closed.”
“That doesn’t make it an invitation.”
Ouch.
Heat rises in my cheeks—not embarrassment, but irritation. “I’m sorry for looking. I was just—curious. That’s all.”
“Well, don’t be.” He steps past me, shutting the notebook with a quiet but definitive snap. “Curiosity gets people hurt.”
“Is that what happened to you?” The question leaps out before I can stop it.
He goes utterly still.
The silence stretches, taut and ugly, before he says, “You don’t know anything about what happened to me.”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t. But you’re living on top of a mountain like you’re hiding from the world. And after the other night, I’d say I have a right to wonder.”
His gaze snaps to mine—sharp, wounded, furious.
“Saving my life once doesn’t give you a license to interrogate me,” he says. “You did your job. That’s it.”
My heart lurches in my chest, equal parts hurt and exasperation. “I wasn’t interrogating you. I was trying to understand whysomeone withthis”—I gesture toward the schematics—“was out in an avalanche zone alone. You could’ve died.”
He steps closer.
I should back away, but I don’t.
His breath ghosts across my cheek, warm against the cool air of the workshop. “Maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing.” The words are soft, but they knock something inside me sideways. Pain flickers behind his eyes, raw and unguarded for a single heartbeat before he shutters himself again.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper.
“Why?” His voice drops lower. “You barely know me.”
“That doesn’t mean your life doesn’t matter.”
Something cracks between us. It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. It’s a shift—like snow groaning under weight right before it slides.
