Page 3

Chapter 3

Friction

Light filters through the frost-covered window, barely distinguishable from last night's darkness. The blizzard continues its assault, snow piling against the shelter's walls with audible weight. I blink awake on the narrow cot, disoriented before memories flood back—the fall, the rescue, Jackson.

My ankle throbs beneath the blankets, a persistent reminder of yesterday's foolishness. Despite the woodstove’s glow, the shelter feels colder than last night, suggesting Jackson let it burn down while I slept.

He sits at the small table, methodically cleaning what appears to be a disassembled radio. His broad shoulders hunch over the delicate work, and his strong fingers are surprisingly nimble with the tiny components. He hasn't noticed I'm awake yet, allowing me a moment to observe him unguarded.

In the gray morning light, Jackson Hart is no less intimidating than he was yesterday. His jaw is set in concentration, dark hair falls across his forehead, and those capable hands move with certainty. He looks like he belongs here—rugged, self-sufficient, part of the mountain itself.

I shift slightly, and his head snaps up, that intense blue gaze pinning me in place.

"Storm's worse." No good morning, no pleasantries. "Another system merged with this one overnight."

"How long?" My voice comes out raspy from sleep and the shelter's dry air.

"Three days, minimum."

The words land like stones in my stomach. Three days in this tiny space with this unyielding man.

Jackson rises from the table, moving to the woodstove to add another log. "Generator's acting up. Need to conserve what little juice we have."

I push myself upright, wincing as my ankle protests. "What needs to be done?"

Something like surprise flickers across his features—perhaps he expected complaints rather than offers of assistance.

"Inventory." He nods toward the shelves. "Food, water, medical supplies. Need to know exactly what we're working with."

It's a task suited for my injured state, requiring minimal movement. I appreciate that he hasn't mentioned my limitations. Swinging my legs carefully off the cot, I test my weight gingerly on the injured ankle. Better than yesterday, but nowhere near healed.

"Here." Jackson appears beside me with a makeshift cane—a sturdy branch cut to height, the bark stripped away to reveal smooth wood beneath. "Made it last night."

The unexpectedly thoughtful gesture catches me off-guard. "Thank you."

He shrugs, already turning away, a man uncomfortable with gratitude. "Coffee's ready. Not the fancy stuff you're probably used to."

"I'm not actually that high-maintenance." The defensive words escape before I can stop them.

Jackson's eyebrow lifts slightly, skepticism evident without a single word spoken.

"Despite what you clearly think of me." I hobble toward the table where a metal mug steams with black coffee.

"What I think doesn't matter." He focuses on the generator in the corner, a squat, battered machine that looks older than both of us combined. "What matters is getting through the next few days alive."

The coffee tastes surprisingly good—strong and hot, exactly what my body craves. Jackson kneels beside the generator, tools spread around him in precise order. He works quickly, adjusting, tightening, and testing.

"Running rough." He speaks more to himself than to me. "Need to clean the fuel line again."

I turn my attention to the task assigned: cataloging our supplies. The shelves hold more than I initially thought—canned goods, dried foods, water bottles, medical supplies, extra clothing, and emergency equipment. Each item is placed with logical precision, nothing wasted, nothing frivolous.

"Twelve cans of stew, eight of beans, four of corn, six packets of jerky, ten protein bars," I call out, making mental notes. "Twenty liters of water, plus whatever snow we can melt."

"That's enough. Even if we're stuck here for a week." He doesn't look up from the generator.

"You always keep this place so well-stocked?"

"Always prepared. Mountains don't forgive lack of preparation." The words carry weight beyond their literal meaning.

Working methodically across the shelves, I reach a section that seems more personal—books, a compass, a few tools, and—partially concealed behind a manual on alpine survival—a small framed photograph.

Curiosity pulls my hand toward it before consideration can stop me. The simple wooden frame holds a sun-faded image of a woman standing triumphantly on a mountain summit. Her smile radiates even through the weathered photo—bright, joyful, alive. Long auburn hair escapes from beneath a climbing helmet, whipping in what must be substantial wind. Strong, capable-looking, with a grace even the still image can't disguise.

Beautiful.

"Put that back." Jackson's voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade.

Startled, I nearly drop the frame. Jackson stands a few feet away, his expression thunderous, body rigid with tension.

"I was just?—"

"Put. It. Back." Each word is precise and controlled, but with undercurrents of something dangerous.

I put the photo exactly as I found it, partially hidden from casual view. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to?—"

"Some things aren't for your writer's curiosity." His jaw works beneath his beard, hands clenched at his sides. "Some things are off-limits."

"Emma?" The name slips out, remembered from whispers in the diner.

Jackson goes absolutely still, a predator caught in unexpected territory. "You know nothing about her."

"I know she was your fiancée. That she died in a climbing accident." The words tumble out despite the warning signs, my journalist's instinct overriding common sense. "I know that's why you're so?—"

"So what?" He steps closer, looming over me, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "Cautious? Insistent that unprepared tourists stay off my mountain? Unwilling to let another person die because they underestimated nature?"

Heat rises in my cheeks. "You’re arrogant. Acting like you own the mountain, deciding who's worthy to climb it."

"Arrogant?" A harsh laugh escapes him. "You ignored every warning, risked your life and mine, and you call me arrogant?"

"Yes, arrogant." Standing my ground despite the throb in my ankle. "You took one look at me and decided I was some helpless city girl who couldn't possibly understand your precious wilderness."

"And was I wrong?" He gestures broadly at our situation, voice rising. "Look where we are. Look what happened."

"That doesn't give you the right to dictate what others can do."

"When their stupidity endangers lives? Yes, it absolutely does."

We're inches apart now, both breathing hard, neither willing to back down. His eyes blaze with controlled fury, his scent—pine and smoke and something distinctly male—surrounds me.

"My 'stupidity' is the reason I have a career at all." The words burst out, raw and honest. "Playing it safe my entire life got me nowhere. Taking risks is how I finally broke through."

"There's a difference between calculated risks and reckless endangerment," Jackson growls. "You didn't respect the mountain. You didn't respect the storm. You didn't respect my warning."

"I didn't respect your authority, you mean." My chin lifts defiantly. "Because despite what everyone in that town seems to think, you're not actually in charge of?—"

His mouth crashes against mine, cutting off the words. The kiss is nothing like I imagined—not that I've imagined kissing this infuriating man—but it’s fierce, desperate, and consuming. His hands frame my face, rough calluses against my skin, holding me as if I might disappear.

For one suspended moment, shock prevents any response. Then something primal takes over, and I'm kissing him back with equal fervor, fingers gripping the front of his shirt. The heat between us has nothing to do with the woodstove and everything to do with days of tension finally igniting.

Days?

Okay, ONE day, but that tension…

His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding and skilled, drawing an embarrassing sound from deep in my throat. Jackson's body presses closer, solid, warm, and overwhelming.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. Jackson wrenches himself away, stumbling backward, eyes wide with what can only be described as horror.

"Fuck." The word explodes from him, rough and raw. "I shouldn't have?—"

My lips still tingle, my body humming with unexpected desire. Words fail me completely.

Jackson runs a hand through his hair, agitation in every movement. "This is exactly why—" He stops, jaw working. "I can't do this."

"Jackson—"

"Don't." He holds up a hand, avoiding my gaze. "That was a mistake. A serious lapse in judgment."

The dismissal stings more than it should. "That's one way to describe it."

His eyes finally meet mine, conflicted and stormy. "I can't trust myself around you."

Before I can respond, he grabs his heavy coat from its hook, shoving his arms into sleeves with jerky movements.

"What are you doing?" Alarm cuts through my confusion. "You can't go out there."

"I need air." He yanks a wool hat over his dark hair and reaches for gloves.

"It's a blizzard!" My voice rises with genuine fear. "You just finished lecturing me about mountain safety."

"I know this mountain better than I know myself." He checks a compass and tucks it into his pocket. "I'll follow the guide rope to the storage cache and back. Half hour, max."

"That's insane." I step toward him, forgetting my injured ankle, and stumble.

Jackson instinctively reaches out to steady me, then pulls back as if burned by the contact. "I'll be fine."

"You can't leave." The words come out more pleading than I intend. "It's not safe."

"Neither is staying right here." His expression shutters, all emotion locked away. "The radio's on the table. Crank it every hour to check in with base. If I'm not back in three hours—" He hesitates. "Tell them where I went."

The door opens, admitting a violent blast of snow and wind before slamming shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden silence.

"Dammit!" My palm slams against the wooden wall in frustration.

What just happened? One moment, we’re arguing; the next, we’re kissing as if our lives depend on it, and then he's storming out into a deadly blizzard rather than spend another minute in my presence.

I hobble to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass. Nothing is visible but swirling white. The storm has already swallowed Jackson. Worry gnaws at my insides, along with a healthy dose of anger. How dare he risk his life to avoid dealing with an awkward situation? How dare he kiss me like that, and then flee as if I'm the one who initiated it?

More importantly, how dare my body still hum with awareness, still crave his touch?

The shelter feels cavernous without his commanding presence, the silence oppressive. I busy myself with tasks—stoking the fire, organizing supplies, anything to avoid dwelling on the pressure of his lips against mine, the strength in his hands, the solid warmth of his body.

Minutes stretch into an hour. I crank the radio as instructed, reporting that all remains well at the shelter, carefully omitting that Jackson has ventured out. No need to worry others yet. He said he'd be back.

The second hour passes more slowly, worry crystallizing into genuine fear. The storm shows no signs of abating, if anything intensifying.

What if he lost the guide rope? What if he slipped? What if he's lying injured somewhere on the mountain, slowly freezing while I sit helplessly in this shelter?

By the third hour, I've prepared myself to radio for help, rehearsing how to explain that the mountain's most experienced guide has vanished into a blizzard rather than deal with an unwanted attraction.

The door suddenly bangs open, admitting a snow-covered figure. Jackson staggers inside, ice crusting his beard and eyebrows, his skin frightening pale where visible.

Relief floods me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle. "You're alive."

He secures the door against the howling wind before turning to face me. His eyes look hollow, exhausted, but his expression reveals nothing of what he's been thinking during his dangerous excursion.

"Told you I would be." His voice sounds rough, as if unused for days rather than hours.

"You're half-frozen."

"I'm fine." He shrugs off his ice-encrusted coat, hanging it mechanically by the door.

"Three hours in a blizzard isn't 'fine,' Jackson." Anger resurfaces now that fear has subsided. "That was reckless."

A bitter smile twists his mouth. "Perhaps you're rubbing off on me."

He moves to the woodstove, holding his hands toward the heat, back deliberately turned to me.

Clear message: conversation over.

The silence stretches between us, taut and uncomfortable. The kiss hovers in the air like an unexploded bomb, neither of us willing to acknowledge it.

Jackson remains by the fire, his shoulders rigid with tension, while I stand awkwardly beside the table, uncertain whether to push or retreat.

"I won't ask where you went." The words emerge softer than intended.

"Good." He doesn't turn around.

"But I will ask why."

His back stiffens further. "You know why."

"Because you kissed me?"

"Because I lost control." He finally turns, eyes guarded. "I don't lose control. Ever."

The implications hang heavy between us. Lost control with me. Lost control on the mountain once before, with tragic consequences.

"It was just a kiss." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. It wasn't just anything, and we both know it.

"Nothing is ' just ' anything up here." He gestures toward the raging storm outside. "Everything has consequences. Everything."

His intensity should repel me. Instead, it draws me like a magnet. This man feels everything so deeply and guards himself so carefully that the momentary lapse in his armor reveals depths I hadn't imagined.

"We're stuck here regardless." I attempt practicality. "We can't exactly avoid each other."

"We can avoid talking about it." His tone suggests the matter is closed. "And it won't happen again."

The finality in his voice stings more than it should. Not that I want it to happen again. Absolutely not. This man is infuriating, arrogant, damaged, and completely wrong for me in every conceivable way.

So why does my body tingle at the memory of his touch?

Why does disappointment curl through me at his dismissal?

Jackson moves to the generator, checking it, deliberately focusing elsewhere. The message is clear: boundaries are re-established, walls are rebuilt, and they are stronger than before.

But beneath his controlled exterior, tension radiates from him like heat. And despite his declaration, something elemental shifted between us—something neither of us can pretend away.

The blizzard rages outside, trapping us together for days to come. The kiss may not happen again, but its aftershocks will continue reverberating through our forced proximity, making the wilderness outside seem far less dangerous than the smoldering tension within these four walls.