Chapter 3

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me with those piercing sapphire eyes, his brow tightening as if weighing whether I'm brave or just being reckless.

 A sigh leaves him, visible in the freezing air. "Pushing through pain might work in the city," he says quietly, "but out here? It'll kill you."

 The words aren't harsh—just honest, worn from experience. Still, he adjusts his grip on me.

 "Fine," he adds, jaw tight. "But the second you can't keep up, you say something. Pride won't keep you warm when the cold sets in."

 His words sting more than I expect, even though they're true. A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck, hot and unwelcome. I hate that he sees through me so easily.

 Still, I square my shoulders, refusing to let the sting settle into shame. I'm not some porcelain doll, no matter what he thinks.

 But… damn it, he's not wrong. And the way he said it—steady, no judgment, just fact—it makes something unfamiliar stir in me. Not trust, not yet. But maybe the start of it.

 He's not coddling me. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone's seeing the truth of me—and not just the name stitched to my coat.

 "How do we get out of here?" I ask, my voice barely carrying over the wind. Worry coils tight in my stomach, heavier now that I'm upright, now that I see how isolated we really are.

 The cold steals my breath and snatches the words from my mouth, scattering them across the snow like loose paper.

 "Well, first, I check the radio," he says above my head, his tone calm, and maddeningly so as his eyes drift toward the wreckage.

 "Fine, help me over to it," I say hotly with a wave of my hand. "Let's get on with it then."

 "Feisty," he chuckles, before guiding me toward the still-smoking wreckage of the plane.

The pain in my leg flares with every step, radiating up my hip and through the muscles I usually take pride in. It curls hot in my stomach, churning nausea beneath my bravado.

 The short walk leaves me breathless, my legs trembling with effort. Sweat beads along my brow despite the biting cold, and a grimace twists my face with every step.

 He notices—I can tell by the way his jaw tics, the way his hand hovers for a moment like he wants to offer support—but he says nothing.

 Please let the radio work.

 If not, we're stuck. Alone. Until someone decides we're worth finding.

 "Mr. Hart?" I ask reluctantly, afraid of his answer.

 "Yes, Miss Lewis?" He replies instantly, his voice as steady as ever. 

 A shiver runs down my spine– not from the cold, but from the way he says my name. Like it means something. Like I mean something.

 "What are the chances of being rescued?"

 Mr. Hart lowers me slowly to the snowy ground like I'm nothing more than a feather. My back presses against the cold metal of the broken plane, a chill sinking through my coat and into my bones.

 He straightens, eyes hard as steel, scanning the horizon before looking down at me.

 A shiver ripples through me—part cold, part dread.

 "Well," he says, voice tight. He hesitates a second too long, and the pause says more than his words ever could. "Not good."

 My heart sinks at his words, a cold weight settling into my chest– but I refuse to let him see it. 

 Lifting my chin I force a scoff, "I'm sure you're wrong. I am a very important person after all."

 "I bet you are," Mr Hart chuckles, clambering through the cockpit with all the grace of a moose on ice. Metal groans and snaps beneath his boots as he moves, and I roll my eyes.

 With a sigh, I tug my phone from the zippered pocket of my coat. A jagged crack spiderwebs across the screen, and I pray it still works. One press of the power button, and my hope nosedives—no signal. Just a big red circle with a slash through it.

 Because the universe has a sense of humor, I glance at the sleek smartwatch my father insisted I wear. A bribe disguised as a birthday gift. The screen is shattered and dead. I yank it off my wrist and drop it into the snow without a second thought.

 A quiet whistle escapes him. "Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

 I flinch. "It's broken," I answer, the words tinged with more edge than I intend. 

 He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, not judging. Just thought maybe you were mad about the scratches."

 I say nothing. If he thinks I'm angry over a broken toy instead of the crushing isolation and the weight of years of being watched and managed like a puppet—then fine. Let him.

 Mr Hart shakes his head and turns back to the console, muttering something I don't catch. My chest tightens, but I pretend not to care.

 He rummages through the wreckage, the sound of clanging metal and snapping debris echoing sharply in the still air.

 After a moment, he emerges from the rubble holding a tangled mess of broken electronics—twisted wires, cracked screens, and battered circuit boards.

 He casts a quick glance my way, brow furrowed, but says nothing about the defeated look on his face.

 I watch him, sensing the weight behind his silence. It's not just the broken radio—it's everything it represents.

 "And our chances just went to zero," I spit out angrily, holding up my useless phone like it's proof of the universe conspiring against me. The screen glares back at me, cracked and lifeless. My lips pull down into a frown I can't hide, the hope I had clutched so tightly now slipping through my fingers like melting snow.