The final day of the retreat dawned with a whisper of snow.

Maya watched the flakes drift outside her window, her ankle resting on a pillow, tender but no longer sharp with pain. The events of the night before played on a loop in her mind. The feel of Richard's hand on her arm, the softness in his eyes she hadn't imagined. Something had shifted. Not spoken, not explained, but undeniably real.

She exhaled, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Get it together," she muttered. 

The morning passed in soft conversation and slow packing. The other executives lingered over brunch, trading handshakes and contact cards. Maya kept busy—discreet, efficient, managing her limp with dignity. Richard had yet to come downstairs, but she could feel him—his presence like a pressure in the air.

When he did appear, finally, the effect was immediate.

His hair was neater again, his suit sharp and precise, but something in him remained unraveled. His gaze swept the room until it landed on her. And paused.

He gave a small nod. "We'll leave in two hours. I'd like you to finalize the logistics."

"Yes, sir."

His eyes lingered. Just for a moment. Then he turned away.

By late afternoon, the lodge had mostly emptied. Snow coated the world in silence as Maya stood by the car, loading the last of the documents into the back seat. She closed the trunk with a satisfying thud, wincing slightly at the motion. Her ankle protested, but she refused to let it show.

"You shouldn't be doing that," Richard's voice said from behind her.

She turned, startled. He stood closer than she expected.

"It's fine," she said quickly. "I can manage."

His expression was unreadable, but not unfeeling. "That's not the point."

The pause stretched too long. Maya blinked. "Sorry. I—"

"Don't apologize. Just... sit down."

Her lips parted slightly, confused by the gentleness. He wasn't being cold. Not exactly kind either. Something in between.

He opened the passenger door for her. Not a word more.

She obeyed.

The road out of the mountains was long and winding, framed in snow and early dusk. The silence in the car was different now. Not uncomfortable. Just... full. Weighted.

She stole a glance at him. His profile was sharp, his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel wasn't relaxed. His knuckles were pale.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For last night."

He didn't answer at first.

Then: "You should be more careful."

She smiled faintly. "I was trying to impress you."

That got his attention.

"You don't have to impress me," he said at last. "Just do your job."

The words were cold.

But the voice wasn't.

___

They reached the next hotel just before nightfall—a transitional stop before the flight back to the city. A high-rise, modern and sterile, all glass and steel. Maya carried her bag quietly, only slightly limping now, when Richard's voice stopped her.

"There's a viewing deck on the tenth floor."

She blinked. "Sir?"

He looked at her, and for once, there was no sharp edge to his tone. "It's private. You might like the view."

She nodded slowly. "Thank you."

That night, she stood on the viewing deck alone.

And when the door opened behind her half an hour later, she didn't turn.

But she smiled.

The wind was sharp, but it wasn't cold.

They stood side by side, framed by the white glow of the snow-drenched peaks and the soft amber lights rising from the valley below. The viewing deck creaked gently beneath their boots. Richard hadn't said a word since they stepped out—hadn't looked at her either—but Maya could feel his presence, coiled and quiet like a drawn bowstring.

She stole a glance at him.

He was still, as always, but there was something different in the set of his jaw, the way the light caught in his pale eyes. His hair, usually so immaculately combed, was still slightly wind-tossed from earlier, and the shadows beneath his eyes looked heavier than ever.

Maya shifted her weight, careful not to lean on her healing ankle. "It's... really quiet up here."

He nodded once, his gaze never leaving the mountains. "That's the point."

Right. She fumbled for something to say, fingers tightening around the railing. "Thank you. For... yesterday."

His eyes flicked to her, sharp and unreadable. "You don't need to thank me."

"But I want to."

Silence lapped at her words, stretching like the mountains beyond them. Maya didn't know what she expected—a brush-off, maybe. That was typical of him. But he didn't move, didn't correct her, didn't even retreat.

He just stood there, quiet and unreadable, until the silence became too much.

"I didn't mean to twist my ankle, I just wanted to learn a little more so next time I would be better prepared" she said softly, trying to laugh, though it came out brittle. 

Richard's eyes narrowed—not cruelly, but as if puzzling over something.

"I've never seen someone learn skiing in the evening." he said, voice flat.

Maya flushed, biting back a groan. "I guess I didn't think it through sir, I am sorry sir."

But then—just for a heartbeat—his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smirk. Not quite mocking. Not quite amused. She stared at him, blinking.

"Nevertheless, you handled your duties well." he said at last.

Maya stared even harder. That... might've been a compliment.

She turned her face away, embarrassed. Her ears burned. 

Another beat of silence.

Then something in the air shifted—subtle, but real. A quiet awareness, the kind that made her skin tingle. Maybe it was the darkness, or the solitude, or the weight of everything said between them, but the space between their shoulders felt charged now.

Richard shifted slightly, barely an inch, and his hand brushed against hers on the railing.

She startled—just a flinch—but he didn't move away.

Maya didn't look at him. Her heart had started beating far too fast, and her brain wasn't cooperating. It was just an accident. Just an accidental touch.

But it lingered. Not skin-on-skin, just the brush of his gloved hand against hers. Warmth seeped into the place where their coats met, and for a breathless second, neither of them moved.

Richard was watching her.

Not with that cold detachment she was used to, but something far heavier. Quieter. His eyes traced her profile—her lashes, the pink flush on her cheeks from the wind, the way her mouth pressed slightly in concentration as if she were trying very hard not to say something foolish.

She didn't notice.

Or maybe she did. Her hand twitched but didn't pull away.

"You should go inside," he said finally, voice quieter now. Not an order—almost gentle. "It's getting late."

Maya hesitated, then nodded. But as she turned to leave, she stumbled slightly on her ankle. She caught herself before she could fall, but Richard was already moving—his hand catching her elbow to steady her.

The contact sent something electric down her spine.

"I'm fine," she whispered quickly, not meeting his eyes.

He let go slowly, too slowly. She could feel the heat of his palm even through the thick fabric of her coat. It was ridiculous—she was being ridiculous—but something had shifted.

She felt it.

So did he.

Maya turned and walked back into the lodge, heart hammering. She didn't look back.

But Richard did.

He stood alone on the deck for a long time, staring at the spot where she had just been. His hand curled loosely at his side, the memory of her weight against his palm lingering longer than it should have.

The voice inside him had gone silent.

And that, somehow, was the most dangerous part.