“Fuck, baby,” he says, gently running his hands over my body. He’s searching for any signs of injury, but that’s kind of hard to do when someone is entirely bundled up in winter gear. “Did you hurt anything?”
I take a second to think about how my body actually feels, now that a little of the initial shock has subsided. “My back kind of hurts, but not bad.”
“Nothing else?” he asks.
“No,” I say, shaking my head against the snow beneath me.
He gently grips the edge of my goggles and shifts them up. His eyes bore into me. “Did you hit your head?”
My mind thinks through the crash. It’s all kind of a blur, but I didn’t hit my head on anything. “No.”
He lets out a relieved breath, shoulders relaxing. He grabs my hands, slowly helping me to sit up. Delicate fingers swipe snow off my cheeks, and I lean into his touch.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he says, touching the side of my face. “If something happened…” His words trail off as he shakes his head.
Reaching up, I wrap my glove-covered hand around his forearm. “But I’m fine. I promise.” I might be a little sore tomorrow, but I’m not injured.
His forehead falls against mine. Only our helmets separate us from being skin-to-skin. “I’m so sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“It is,” he says, shaking his head. “It was my idea to do this stupid race in the first place, and you only turned around to see where I was. It’s absolutely my fault.”
“Wyatt, no.” I grip both of his shoulders, giving him a little shake. “Accidents happen.”
“I know, but… fuck.”
He doesn’t worry often, but when he does, his worry can become all-consuming—especially if it’s about one of the people he cares deeply about. And I am now one of those people.
To snap him out of this train of thought, I bring his mouth to mine and kiss him. He melts into the kiss, seeming to need this reassurance that I really am okay.
“Better?” I ask when I pull away.
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk. “You really know me, don’t you?”
“I like to think I do, but the parts I don’t yet I want to one day.”
His eyes soften. He looks like he wants to say something, but he stops himself by pressing another quick kiss to my lips. “You think you can stand?”
He helps me to my feet. We both stare down at my ski boots for the first time, and my skis are gone. We crane our necks to look for them, but they are nowhere in sight.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
“Well… my ride down this mountain just got a hell of a lot better,” Wyatt says, grinning.
“What?” Maybe I did hit my head because I’m completely lost.
He grabs his skis, clicking his boots back into place. He pulls his goggles down and holds his arms out at his sides. “Hop on, beautiful.”
“The fuck?” I ask, looking at him like he has multiple heads.
“Hop on,” he says, patting his chest a few times.
“You are not skiing down this mountain with me in your arms.”
“I definitely am,” he says with a little sass.
“Wyatt.”
