“Good to finally meet you,” he says. Even through the storm, there’s a wry smile in his voice. “Let me radio Tommy.”
He steps aside, unclipping his radio. “Tommy, we’ve got her. All fine. Stroll successful.”
Static crackles, then Tommy’s voice cuts through. “Copy that. Unit Five is almost on the ridge. Weather’s worsening. Keep moving.”
Before we start again, Alex slips off his pack and rummages inside. “Emms, you’re shaking. Here.” He pulls out a spare insulated jacket. Proper mountain rescue kit. He helps me into it, but when I try to zip it up the fabric strains awkwardly across my chest and hips. The zip refuses to meet in the middle. Men’s clothes and women’s hips aren’t meant for each other at the best of times, but when I am definitely a lot bigger than him, there is no chance in hell that this will fit me.
Mortification rushes up my throat. “It’s fine,” I mumble quickly. “Really. I’m fine.”
Alex frowns and tries again, gentle but impossibly sincere, as though the problem is the jacket and not me. When the zip still won’t budge, he stops, meeting my eyes instead of the fabric.“Right. Warm is more important than zipped,” he says softly. “We’ll sort something else.”
Nick rummages in his bag and produces a bright orange poncho. “This will keep the worst of the weather off her,” he says. “Not glamorous, but it works.”
I pull it on, grateful for the curtain of waterproof fabric shielding me from their view and the wind. The second it’s over my head, Alex crouches beside me.
“Emms… your top is soaked.” His voice is low but firm. “If you stay in wet layers, you’ll go hypothermic. You need something dry under there.”
A lump lodges in my throat. “I can’t exactly… change.”
“You can,” he says, steady as bedrock. He looks at Nick. “Eyes elsewhere. Now.”
Nick turns his back immediately. “Not a problem.”
Alex stays facing me, close enough to help but not crowding. “I’m right here. If you get stuck, tell me.”
Changing under a poncho in the wind is about as graceful as wrestling an octopus. Fabric sticks to my damp skin. My arms tangle. The poncho whips around my face. I swear under my breath as I fight my wet T-shirt over my head.
“I’ve got you,” Alex murmurs and holds the poncho down on one side so the wind stops trying to turn me into a kite. Once I pass him my wet shirt and cardigan, he hands me a dry T-shirt of his.
Eventually I wriggle into the T-shirt. It clings to me like a second skin and I am sure it is loose on Alex, but it’s dry and warm and right now that’s all that matters.
“You good?” he asks.
“Mostly,” I say, breathless as I slip the FMR jacket on over the T-shirt but under my shield—the orange rain poncho.
He adjusts the flapping fabric so it covers me properly. “Better,” he says softly. Not in a judging way. In a relieved way. “Much better.”
Nick glances over his shoulder only when Alex says, “Alright.” He tugs the hood forward to shield my face. “Let’s get you off the mountain before this turns biblical.”
We start upward again, and it becomes painfully obvious that I’m slowing them down. My legs feel like wet sandbags. My lungs burn from crying, from fear, from climbing far higher than I meant to. Every few steps I stumble, and each time Alex is there instantly, anchoring me with a touch to my back or a hand around my elbow.
Nick adjusts the rope behind us without a single complaint, shortening it whenever I falter. “Take your time,” he calls over the wind. “No medals for sprinting.”
The encouragement helps, but the climb still feels endless. The wind howls across the slope, battering us sideways. My boots slip on wet rock more than once. Both men hover close enough that I never actually fall.
At last, the angle of the ground softens. The ridge. Shapes materialise through the fog ahead like ghosts rising from the mountain. The distinctive headlamps of more mountain rescuers cut thin, bright beams through the storm.
One of them strides towards us, rain streaming off his jacket. His gaze sweeps over me in a professional assessment. “No helicopter in this. Gusts are too strong. Can you walk, or do you need a stretcher?”
The humiliation hits instantly. The idea of being carried makes my stomach twist. “I can walk,” I say too quickly, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Really. I’m okay.”
Alex rests a warm, steady hand on my back. “Gerald, thanks for coming mate. She’ll be fine walking,” he says, gentle but firm. “We’ll go slow.”
Gerald nods and gestures for a pair of rescuers to lead the way.
The descent begins, and it’s slow. Painfully slow. I’m tired, shaking, and the wind feels determined to shove me right off the ridge. But Alex never leaves my side. Every stumble, every wobble, every gust that knocks me sideways—his hand is already there, bracing me before I even lose balance.
Nick walks a little behind us, rope still in hand, ready if I falter again. Not impatient. Not mocking. Just steady. I’m not even sure if I even need to be on the rope anymore—nobody else is—but I also don’t have any energy to question it.
