Chapter 5

I sit back against the cold snow, the chill seeping through my coat, and my eyes widen without meaning to. I balk, heart pounding with a mix of fear and frustration.

 "I—I'm fine," I mumble, though even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

 "Miss Lewis," he begins, voice exasperatedly steady with just the barest edge of amusement.

 "Stop calling me that!" I snap, the words harsher than I wanted them to be. The formality grates against my nerves—like a reminder that I don't belong out here, in his world.

 His eyes crinkle at the corners as a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It shouldn't affect me—but it does. It boils my blood, and not just with irritation. How can he make me furious and still twist something low in my stomach into knots of unwanted anticipation? I didn't come here to develop weird feelings, yet I can't seem to tear my gaze from the rugged man in front of me.

 "Alright, Heather."

 "I'm fine," I repeat, more stubborn than sincere, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right.

 "Prove it."

 "Excuse me?" I sputter, taken aback. My voice pitches higher, caught somewhere between offense and disbelief.

 He just stares, one brow arched in quiet challenge, like he's daring me to make a move—to do anything other than sit here in the snow, pretending I'm okay when I'm clearly not.

 "If you're fine, prove it. Get up and let's go," he says again, that infuriating eyebrow cocked in pure, adamant smugness.

 "Ugh, are you always like this? So smug and arrogant," I grumble, my brows drawing tight in irritation.

 "It's only arrogance if I'm wrong. And I'm only like this when dealing with someone too stubborn for their own good," he laughs, deep and annoyingly amused, before dropping to his knees beside me. His warmth is sudden and close.

 "Let me see."

 Knowing I can't escape this, I give in with a sigh and lean forward, fumbling to roll up the now-damp denim clinging to my leg. It's only then that I notice the rip in the stiff fabric—and the blood seeping through the front.

 Heat rushes to my face, blooming in my cheeks as humiliation sets in. Of course he probably saw it already. I feel foolish now, all my earlier protests crumbling like dry leaves.

 Mr. Hart moves my hands aside—hands that have frozen mid-motion from the shock—and begins rolling up my pant leg with a gentleness I never would have expected from him. Though we'd only just met, everything about him—his solid build, the way he carries himself, the quiet confidence—had told me he was not a gentle man by nature.

 And yet, his touch says otherwise.

 He doesn't flinch when he sees the gash—though I do. His brows draw together as he studies it, lips pressed in a tight line, and I wonder if he's angry. At me? At the situation?

 "This isn't great," he mutters, mostly to himself. His fingers are warm against my chilled skin, careful as they probe around the wound. Every touch is efficient, but still... strangely considerate.

 It disarms me.

 I watch him work, unable to look away. There's a furrow in his brow now, and something about the quiet focus on his face makes my chest twist. Not out of pain—though that's there too—but something else I can't name.

 He could've mocked me. Tossed out another smug comment. But instead, he's... here. Steady. Capable.

 And more dangerous to my heart than I want to admit.

 A pained hiss escapes my lips when his rough gloves come in contact with the jagged gash marring my usually flawless skin. The blood makes me cringe and I quickly avert my eyes.

 "Sorry," he mumbles softly but doesn't move away, pulling my pant leg up even further to see the full extent of the wound. The icy wind chills me to the bone, and goosebumps rise across my body.

 He leans in, brows furrowed, his expression focused. "Doesn't look broken, but probably painful either way," he says distractedly, not glancing up. "Probably needs stitches…"

 I clench my jaw, trying to swallow the rising nausea. "Lucky me."

 He doesn't smile at that—just presses gently around the edges of the wound, fingers careful despite the thickness of his gloves. I flinch, unable to stop it.

 "It'll swell fast," he mutters. "You'll need to keep weight off it as much as possible."

 I glare up at him, the expression more for pride than effect. "That's hard to do when we're in the middle of nowhere."

 "Which is why we're going to have to get creative." He stands slowly, brushing snow from his knees. "We can't stay here."

 The wind howls louder now, like it's agreeing with him. I glance at the angry gash on my leg, then up at the sky that's shifting to a heavier, darker gray.

 "I'll take not broken, I guess," I huff, crossing my arms over my chest in a move I hope portrays my unhappiness at the situation, but really it's to keep me warmer, the cold Alaskan air suddenly too much. My whole body shivers and I have to clench my jaw tightly to keep my teeth from chattering.

 "Let me find the medkit," he says, already moving towards the wreckage with purposeful strides.

 "Wait!" I say with alarm, my voice cutting through the icy wind. The word stitches finally registers in my frozen brain as he starts to walk away. "You aren't planning to do that yourself, right?" I call after him, my voice pitching higher with concern.