The cry echoed again. Fainter this time.

Richard's hand trembled as he reached for the suite door, knuckles white, jaw clenched but her voice had reached something he thought long buried—a thread of urgency wrapped in her pain. It ignited him, fought through the thick mire of his darker self like a blade through fog.

He yanked the door open.

The hallway spun slightly. His head throbbed from the hours of pain and resistance, but his steps were already heavy against the floorboards. Down the hall. Through the back. Into the cold.

The snow had begun to fall again, soft flurries brushing against his cheeks. Somewhere out there—beneath that ice-covered stretch—was Maya.

He followed instinct. It guided him like it always had—silent, invisible, undeniable.

He found her crumpled near the bend of the beginner trail, knees buried in the snow, arms wrapped tight around herself, her breath shaky and uneven. One ski was several feet away, her ankle twisted unnaturally. Her shoulders jerked when she saw him.

"M-Mr. Steel?"

He didn't respond. Couldn't. His throat felt raw. His limbs ached. He looked terrible—his black coat dusted with snow, dark hair tousled from hours of running his fingers through it in frustration, eyes rimmed red from the internal war that hadn't stopped.

"You—" she blinked up at him, brows knitting. "You look..."

"Don't talk," he said, voice gravelly and lower than usual.

He dropped to one knee beside her, wincing slightly. For the briefest second, his hand hovered near hers. Then, gently, as if she might shatter, he scooped her into his arms.

She tensed immediately. "I-I'm fine, I can probably—"

"You twisted your ankle. Don't move it."

"But—"

"Silence, Maya."

He didn't mean it harshly. Not really. It was the exhaustion, the tremor in his voice betraying how much it took to even speak.

Her mouth shut, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she stared at the edge of his coat as he lifted her with surprising steadiness.

But she noticed the heaviness in his steps.

The way his breathing came too fast.

The way his jaw was tight—not in frustration, but pain.

He carried her back to the lodge in silence, through the snow-covered trees and into the back hallway, where the light glowed amber against the cold.

When they reached her room, he opened the door with a strained breath, gently set her down on the soft chair near the fireplace and turned to retrieve the first aid kit from the cabinet.

She watched him, wide-eyed.

His sleeves were still rolled to his forearms. His shirt clung slightly to his back like he had sweated through it earlier. His normally flawless hair fell across his forehead in disheveled waves, and when he turned, there were dark circles under his eyes—he looked... human. Devastatingly tired. And very, very alone.

He knelt in front of her again, unraveling the bandages and antiseptic pads without saying a word.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

His hands stilled for a moment.

"For what?"

"I didn't mean to cause you more stress today. I just wanted to..." She looked down.

He didn't press. Instead, he removed her boot and sock with practiced care. When his fingers brushed her bare skin, Maya braced—but there was no cold, no pain, no reaction. Just warmth.

Richard froze for a fraction of a second.

Then he wrapped the bandage around her swollen ankle, his fingers moving with precision despite the occasional flicker of pain across his face.

"I'll be fine by tomorrow," she offered, voice small.

"You won't be skiing again until I say so," he replied, voice cool, but not unkind.

He looked up then. Really looked.

And something in his expression made her breath catch.

Not anger.

Not even concern.

It was... something else.

Something caught between exhaustion and awe.

Like she didn't make sense.

Like he wanted to figure her out—and couldn't.

The air between them thickened.

His fingers lingered briefly on the knot of the bandage, then dropped away. He stood, walked over to the bedside table, and poured her a glass of water. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed.

No reaction. Still.

Another flicker passed through his eyes.

He turned away again.

"I'll have dinner sent to your room," he said.

"Wait..." she swallowed. "Sir..."

He paused at the door to the adjoining suite.

"...Thank you."

He said nothing.

But the door didn't shut all the way behind him.

Maya sat on the chair long after he disappeared into his suite.

The fire crackled softly. The warmth kissed her skin, but her thoughts spun in hushed spirals, impossible to quiet. The bandage on her ankle felt snug, secure, too gentle to come from someone as intimidating as him.

She looked down at it, fingers brushing the edge like it wasn't real.

He had carried her. In his arms. Just like that.

And she couldn't stop thinking about how human he had looked—messy hair, bloodshot eyes, breath labored like something was clawing at him from the inside. He'd looked...

 Tired like someone fighting a war no one else could see.

And still... he took care of her.

No anger.

No biting reprimands.

No raised voice about irresponsibility or how she should have known better.

Just quiet efficiency. Gentle hands. Care she wasn't sure she'd ever deserved.

Her fingers curled against her palm.

It had always been like that at home. She was Alfred Peyton's daughter—the girl who ruined the simplest connection assignments, tripped on her own feet, said all the wrong things. She remembered the looks. The sharp silences. The endless stares and comments.

Every mistake was proof she was unfit.

Every fall, a confirmation that she didn't belong.

She was supposed to ruin things.

And maybe that's why she had gone out there. Maybe she wanted to prove something—to him, to herself.

She sniffled quietly and wiped the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her sweater. Stupid. Crying now?

He didn't yell.

He didn't even look annoyed.

And when he looked at her—really looked—it wasn't cold or cruel. It was... confused. Curious. Like she was something he couldn't make sense of.

Her cheeks burned again.

She'd been so nervous around him from the start, and for good reason. He made her so nervous. But there was something different tonight. Something about the way his hands lingered a second longer when he tied the bandage. The way he didn't let her finish her apologies.

The way he picked her up like she mattered.

She'd never mattered like that before.

Maya exhaled, pressing her hands to her flushed face. No. No, this wasn't what she should be thinking. He was her boss. She was still on her final chance not to mess up. These thoughts—this warmth—she shouldn't be thinking like this

But the ache in her chest didn't go away.

A quiet knock sounded a moment later. She blinked, startled, then pulled herself upright as the lodge staff delivered a small dinner tray and set it on the table beside her with a polite smile.

"From Mr. Steel," the woman said. "He said to remind you to take the pain meds and rest."

Maya barely got out a "thank you" before the door clicked shut again.

She stared at the tray.

Steaming soup. A cup of tea. A folded napkin. Two small, round painkillers in a porcelain dish.

A laugh caught in her throat—surprised, disbelieving. Not because he sent dinner. But because he remembered medicine.

That tiny detail did something strange to her heart.

She sat there for a long time, hands curled around the mug, watching the snow fall outside the window. Silent. Slow. Beautiful. Her ankle throbbed with a dull ache, but her chest throbbed more—with questions, emotions she didn't know what to name.

Something about tonight had cracked something open.

And she didn't know how to put it back