“They’ll flounder.”
He smiled, and my heart soared and plummeted all at once.
After we finished eating, I stood to gather my things.
Bad idea.
My foot caught on a root under the snow.
I lurched forward.
He caught me.
Again.
His hands wrapped around my waist, steady and warm even through my coat. My palms landed flat against his chest. For a full breath, we were chest-to-chest, breath mingling in frosty air, firelight warming both our faces.
I looked up.
He looked down.
Everything inside me went molten.
No words moved.
No sounds existed.
Just heat.
And breath.
And awareness.
Terrifying, impossible awareness.
Too much.
I stepped back quickly, the cold rushing between us like a slap.
“Great,” I said too brightly. “Fantastic. Graceful as always.”
“Like a gazelle.” He didn’t smile this time.
He just watched me and saw more than I wanted him to see.
I yanked my gaze away. “We should set up our sleeping situation. I’ve got my tent, and you’ve got yours.”
“Agreed,” he said, but his voice had dipped—low, rougher, something threaded with restraint.
“We’re using separate sleeping bags,” I clarified unnecessarily three times.
“I assumed that, especially with separate tents.”
“Good.”
“Good,” he echoed, but we both knew nothing felt good or simple or contained anymore.
I moved toward the tent and went inside. I glanced at my bag, grabbing the down-filled mummy bag from its stuff sack.
