Chapter 2

Maybe that's all I am to him. Just some rich girl playing at independence.

 I'm almost twenty-four, and he seems older—grounded in a way that makes me feel all the more ridiculous for crashing into his life with my bleeding pride and broken leg. Especially with that graying hair, the calm weight of him.

 I narrow my eyes, biting back the flash of shame that rises in my throat.

 Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's pain. Maybe I just don't trust my voice not to crack.

 The silence stretches between us, cold and heavy.

 He doesn't press, at least not right away. He studies me for a breath longer before his gaze shifts, scanning down my body like he's already piecing together the damage for himself.

 "Miss Lewis."

 "Ugh! Why are you so insistent?!" I snap, voice rising with more force than I intend. Tears sting my eyes before I can blink them away.

 Better he think I'm difficult. Cold. Nasty. 

 It's easier than letting him see the little girl I've buried– small, scared and dangerously close to the surface.

 He doesn't flinch at my tone. Doesn't argue or snap back.

 He just watches me—quiet, steady. The wind howls around us, but he doesn't seem to notice.

 Then, finally, he speaks.

 "Because if you can't walk out of here," he says gruffly, scratching at his beard, "we'll be caught in the storm that's rolling in."

 No threat in his voice. No pity, either. Just fact.

 And somehow, that's worse. Because it means he's not trying to scare me. He's just telling the truth.

 I shoot him a look — part disbelief, part are you out of your mind? — then glance up at the sky.

 Cloudless. Blue. Quiet.

 He chuckles, low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest. His coat rustles as his broad shoulders shake, the fabric rough and scratchy in the stillness.

 "The weatherman said it was supposed to be clear for days," I say sharply, glaring up at him like I can will him into being wrong.

 "Trust me. I know when a storm is coming," he says, voice low but sure– so certain it roots in my spine before I can argue.

 Something in his tone carries a weight, a warning. A promise… or a threat. I can't tell which.

 A sudden gust screams through the shattered plane around us, shrieking through torn metal like it's agreeing with him.

 A shiver crawls down my back. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's something else.

 I glance up at him again. He's still watching the sky like he can read something I can't — like the wind speaks a language only he understands.

 And for the first time, I don't feel the urge to argue.

 Maybe it's the blood on his face. The steady way he hasn't panicked. The strange calm in his voice.

 But something about him makes me want to believe. Just a little.

 Just enough.

 Now that I'm sitting upright, the full view unfolds around me.

 Jagged peaks stretch endlessly in every direction, blanketed in ice and snow. Evergreen trees cluster in thick groves, the only color breaking through the white.

 The wreckage of the plane is scattered—broken into pieces like a child's toy snapped in half. Only the front end and tail remain mostly intact, the rest strewn across the slope in a cruel trail.

 And that's when it hits me.

 No one's coming.

 Not through this. Not with snow-covered rock and dense forest hiding every trace of us. If a storm rolls in, it'll bury our tracks, our signal, everything.

 We're not just lost.

 We're invisible.

 I swallow hard, forcing the rising fear back down where it belongs.

 "I'm fine," I say—too quickly, too firmly. I hold out my hands, chin lifted in a show of strength I don't entirely feel. "Help me up."

 Surely the snow cushioned the fall. Surely this expensive new coat did its job. I have to be fine.

 His deep blue orbs linger on me for a heartbeat too long, scanning my form with quiet intensity. Then, without a word, he reaches out—grabbing my wrists in his large, calloused hands and yanking me forward with surprising roughness.

 The jolt sends a fresh shiver down my spine, though not entirely from the cold.

 He doesn't treat me like I'll break. Doesn't hesitate, doesn't coddle.

 And oddly, that's… refreshing.

 But the moment I shift my weight onto my injured foot, pain lances through me—sharp and blinding. I stumble with a cry, falling forward straight into his broad chest.

 I huff and try to push away, embarrassed, but his arm is already around my waist, firm and unyielding. He holds me against him, steadying me like it's nothing—like I weigh nothing.

 A strange heat stirs low in my belly at the contact, unwelcome and too familiar. I know that feeling all too well.

 And I know better than to trust it.

 Nothing can happen with him. It just can't.

 "Whoa," he rumbles, his voice low and steady as his arm tightens around my waist. "You are hurt."

 There's no room for argument in his tone—just calm certainty, like he's stating a fact I've been too stubborn to admit.

 For a second, I want to protest. Pretend again. But something in his eyes dares me to tell the truth.

 "I'll manage," I mumble, trying to sound more convincing than I feel.

 He said it himself—there's a storm coming, and we need to move. There's no time for weakness.

 Besides, I have somewhere else to be. This was only supposed to be a quick stop, a detour before the long, glittering cruise my father planned for my birthday.

 Not… this. Not stranded in the snow, clinging to a stranger's strength.