Chapter 6

He doesn't turn back. Doesn't even pause. Just gives a deep chuckle that rumbles through his chest and shakes his shoulders.

 Ugh. Of course he thinks this is funny.

 My stomach twists. Stitches. Like, actual sewing of skin. I didn't even let the school nurse near me with tweezers once. And now some mountain man with a smug grin and questionable first-aid skills is going to patch me up like I'm some ragdoll? No thank you.

 I cross my arms tighter, partly from indignation, mostly from the cold, and let out a shaky breath. This day just keeps getting better and better.

 Left alone once again, I gaze out into the vast wilderness, trying to distract myself from the bone-deep cold gnawing at my limbs. Smoke from the wreck still clings to the air, but beyond the haze, the landscape is breathtaking—raw, untamed, and so vastly different from the world I come from. Maybe I wasn't entirely wrong to choose this as a birthday escape. Still, I hadn't counted on crashing. Or him. The rugged tour guide with sharp eyes and steady hands who somehow makes me feel both completely seen and utterly undone. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, blaming the shiver that ripples through me on the wind, not the memory of the way his fingers brushed my skin.

 Mr Hart returns a few minutes later, a triumphant smile tugging at his lips, holding a white box marked with a red cross. "No, I'm not going to stitch your leg," he says before I can even open my mouth, like he read the panic in my eyes. "But there should be something in here to keep the blood in—for a while anyway." He chuckles at his own joke, the sound low and amused.

 I shoot him a half-hearted glare, but the sharp edge of my fear dulls just a little. His calm, almost casual attitude toward the situation should irritate me, and yet… it doesn't. Not really. Maybe because that self-assuredness is exactly what I need right now. Still, I don't trust myself to speak without sounding either ungrateful or unhinged, so I settle for crossing my arms and watching him work.

 He leans over my damaged limb, rifling through the medkit, and that's when I finally notice it—a deep gash slicing through the side of his head just above his ear, half-hidden beneath dark, blood-matted hair. My stomach twists.

 "Mr. Hart!" I gasp, my jaw dropping as a spike of alarm shoots through me.

 "Huh?" His head snaps up at my tone, eyes narrowing with sudden concern. The calm, collected air he's worn so far falters slightly as he registers my expression. "What?"

 "Y-your head," I stammer, unable to look away. 

 Without thinking, my gloved hand reaches up to brush back the damp, tangled hair from the wound. He winces slightly when it tugs, and I freeze, guilt flaring through me.

 His skin is warm beneath my fingers despite the freezing air, and the closeness suddenly feels far more intimate than it should. My breath catches—and not just from the cold.

 Mr. Hart reaches up with his bare hand, fingertips brushing the side of his head. When they come away streaked in red, he barely reacts. "Not a problem," he murmurs, already returning to work on my leg like he hadn't just dismissed a gaping head wound.

 "Um, pretty sure that is a big problem," I say, staring at him like he's lost his mind. "You're bleeding, like, a lot."

 He doesn't even look up. Just keeps rifling through the medkit like it's a normal Tuesday and not a scene out of a survival documentary.

 Flabbergasted, I sit straighter, ignoring the fresh wave of pain from my leg. "Is this some macho thing? 'Cause I'm telling you right now, head wounds aren't something to flex about."

 His lips twitch, and I hate that my heart stutters in response. Ugh. Why is it suddenly so hard to focus with him this close?

 "Don't worry about it. I'll be fine," he says, waving me off, clearly uninterested in entertaining my concern any further.

 I huff, crossing my arms for half a second before uncrossing them again. He's already called me stubborn, so why start proving him wrong now? Besides, I'm not about to sit here while he bleeds like it's nothing.

 Without another word, I reach into the medkit and pull out some gauze. When I press it gently to the side of his head, his eyes flick up to meet mine. For a heartbeat, something shifts—something unreadable but intense. It flickers across his expression, like a shadow moving through sunlight, before it vanishes and he's back to being infuriatingly calm.

 I swallow, suddenly aware of how close we are.

 "You don't have to do that."

 "Of course I don't." I shoot him a pointed look. "Now hold still."

 He shifts like he's going to argue, but doesn't. Instead, his eyes lock on mine, quiet and searching. I don't know what he's looking for, but whatever it is, he finds it—because he stays still.