Her eyes find me, sweeping from my face to the monitors, lingering just long enough to register relief.
Relief. For me.
“Hey,” she says softly, smiling as she steps forward. “You’re awake. Good. I wasn’t sure you’d…” She clears her throat, collecting herself. “I’m Ava. Ava Dawson. I’m the EMT who found you.”
So that’s who she is.
The storm woman. The one whose voice I vaguely remember calling through the snow—though I can’t tell how much of that was real and how much was imagination.
I don’t thank her. I don’t greet her. I don’t smile back.
I just stare.
Campbell gives her a nod of recognition. “He’s still a little disoriented.”
“No,” I mutter. “I’m not.”
Ava’s smile falters, just a touch. “Right. Well… I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t back up. “That’s not really how rescue works.”
“I didn’t want to be rescued.”
Campbell shoots me a look sharp enough to cut glass. Ava’s expression shifts—not hurt exactly, but steadying, as if she’s bracing for impact.
“You were buried under an avalanche,” she says. “Hypothermic. Barely breathing. I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“Should have.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. “Is that really what you want to tell the person who kept you alive long enough to get here?”
“I didn’t ask to be kept alive.”
“Well,” she says, exasperation flickering across her face, “you didn’t exactly get a vote.”
Campbell clears his throat, muttering something about giving us space, but Ava ignores him. She steps closer, her gaze focused and assessing in the way medical people get when they’re trying to gauge your mental state without asking outright.
“We need to make sure you don’t have complications,” she says. “Concussion symptoms, rewarming side effects—”
“I said I’m fine.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You’re not. And being rude won’t change that.”
“I wasn’t aware rescuers required gratitude.”
“We don’t,” she says, crossing her arms. “But not actively biting our heads off is a nice start.”
Campbell snorts under his breath. I glare at him until he suddenly remembers a clipboard that needs sorting.
Ava exhales, clearly done trying to coax cooperation out of a man determined not to give it.
“Look,” she says quietly, “I’m glad you’re alive. Even if you’re currently acting like you’re mad about it.”
I don’t answer. Because she’s right. And that’s the worst part.
She waits a moment—one heartbeat too long—then steps back toward the door.
