Distance.
Neutrality.
Control.
But there was a tightness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before I pulled back at the trailhead. And realizing I’d put it there hit me harder than I expected.
I adjusted my pack and tried to shake off the thought.
“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly, not turning around.
“So are you.”
“That’s because we’re working.”
“Are we?”
She stopped walking.
Just stopped.
The cold air carried her breath upward as she slowly turned to look at me. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed, more in confusion than irritation. “You’re the one who switched gears this morning.”
I didn’t answer because she was right.
She snorted and kept walking. “If you want to be all stoic-wilderness-guide, that’s fine. I can match energy.”
“You’re matching energy?”
“Yes,” she said, almost snapping the word. “Because you clearly don’t—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”
I exhaled slowly and followed.
We hiked another stretch of trail. The incline steepened, the snow softened under the trees, and the early light filtered through the branches in pale stripes.
We reached a narrow wooden bridge partially swallowed by drifts, its handrails frosted silver. Sienna stepped onto it first to test the stability. The boards creaked sharply under her weight.
She froze.
So did I.
“Sienna,” I warned.
“I know,” she said, voice low. “It’s fine. I’ve crossed it a hundred times.”
But it wasn’t fine. The wood was older than it looked from a distance, and the snow had settled unevenly across the planks. She shifted her weight again, and a loud crack split the air.
“Sienna!”
I lunged forward as the snow beneath her boot caved slightly, the board dipping before stabilizing again. She caught herself on the railing, breath stuttering out in a white puff.
She wasn’t falling, not yet, but she was one bad step from going through the bridge and straight into the half-frozen stream below.
“Don’t move,” I said, stepping onto the first board.
