Chapter 7
Phil
Helvellyn is wrapped in low cloud when we reach the upper path, the visibility shifting between clear and opaque depending on how the wind moves the mist. The ground is slick underfoot, every rock holding the memory of last night’s rain. It’s the kind of day where one careless step is all it takes.
Tommy leads, steady and unhurried, his orange Fellside Mountain Rescue trousers bright against the grey. He’s been doing this longer than any of us, and he moves with the quiet authority of someone who trusts his instincts because they’ve been tested enough times to earn it.
Nick walks beside him, scanning ahead, while Chris and Rob follow behind with the stretcher between them, boots finding holds automatically. Alex and I flank them, adjusting pace where needed, the rhythm of the team settling in without discussion.
Nobody talks much on the approach.
Not because there’s nothing to say, but because words aren’t needed here. We all heard the call. Adult male. Fall on wet rock. Suspected broken leg. Five-year-old child present.
That last part sits heavier than the rest.
Tommy slows as the path narrows along a band of wet rock.
“There,” he says quietly.
The man sits propped against a slope of loose scree just off the main path, one leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. Even from here, the angle is wrong. Too straight. Too still.
Next to him stands the boy.
He’s small for the mountain, his bright blue waterproof jacket zipped all the way to his chin. His hood is down despite the cold, like he decided at some point that he needed to see properly in order to be useful.
He isn’t crying.
He isn’t fidgeting.
He stands close enough that his shoulder touches his father’s arm, one hand gripping the fabric of his dad’s sleeve.
Watching.
Waiting.
When he sees us, his eyes widen—not with panic, but with something else.
Relief he doesn’t quite allow himself to show.
Tommy raises a hand in greeting.
“Hi there,” he calls. “Fellside Mountain Rescue.”
The man lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped inside his chest for hours.
“Thank God,” he says hoarsely.
Chris and Rob lower the stretcher carefully onto the path while Nick and Tommy move in to assess the injury.
I crouch beside the man, careful to stay in his line of sight.
“I’m Phil,” I say. “We’re going to take care of you.”
Up close, I can see the strain in his face. The exhaustion. Pain layered over the deeper fatigue of waiting without knowing when help would arrive.
“How long have you been here?” Nick asks gently.
The man shifts slightly and immediately regrets it, his jaw tightening.
“Couple of hours,” he says. “Maybe more. Hard to tell.”
His hand moves instinctively toward the boy’s arm.
“He’s been brilliant,” he adds quietly. “Stayed calm. Didn’t panic.”
The boy straightens at that, shoulders pulling back.
Chris crouches down beside him, bringing himself level instead of towering over him.
“You alright?” Chris asks.
The boy nods quickly.
“What’s your name?” Chris tries to engage him in more small talk.
“Owen. I’m looking after my daddy,” he says.
His voice is small, but steady.
Chris doesn’t correct him.
“That’s a big job,” he says seriously. “You’ve done it really well.”
Owen studies his face.
“Is his leg broken?” he asks eventually.
Chris glances briefly at Nick, then back at the boy.
“It might be,” he says honestly. “But we’re going to make it safe so it doesn’t get worse.”
Owen nods again, absorbing that.
“Will it hurt when you move him?”
Chris doesn’t rush the answer.
“It might be uncomfortable,” he says. “But we’ll be careful. And we’ll make sure he gets down to a doctor.”
Owen looks at his dad, then back at Chris.
“I sang him a song,” he says quietly. “The song my mum sings when I am ill.”
Chris’s expression softens in a way most people wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it.
“That was exactly the right thing to do,” he says.
Owen’s grip on his dad’s sleeve loosens slightly.
Nick and Tommy work together to stabilise the leg while Rob prepares the splint. Alex passes over the straps without needing to be asked. We move around each other easily, each person falling into their role without discussion.
The man hisses through his teeth when the splint is secured.
“You’re doing great,” Rob says evenly.
Chris stays beside Owen the entire time.
“You like walking?” Chris asks him quietly while we work.
The boy nods.
“We were going to reach the top,” he says.
Chris nods like that plan still matters.
“You’ll make it next time,” he says. “On a better day.”
Owen considers that.
“Yeah,” he says.
Tommy looks up once everything is secure.
“Ready for the carry,” he says.
We position ourselves around the stretcher.
Chris rests a hand lightly on Owen’s shoulder.
“You can walk with me,” he says. “My friends will carry your daddy to the ambulance.”
The little boy nods and steps closer to him.
When we lift, the weight settles into my arms, familiar and grounding.
Below us, the path winds down toward safety.
Beside us, Owen walks with Chris, asking quiet questions in a voice that tries very hard not to sound afraid.
And Chris answers every single one.
By the time we reach the vehicles, my shoulders ache in that familiar, satisfying way that only comes from carrying weight that mattered.
Chris helps Owen climb into the back of the waiting ambulance beside his dad.
“You did brilliantly,” Chris tells him quietly.
Owen nods, serious about it.
“By Chris,” he sniffles.
Chris gives him a small smile.
Rob and Nick secure the stretcher while Tommy speaks briefly with the ambulance crew, handing over details. Efficient. Routine. Controlled.
Then it’s over.
Just like that.
The urgency dissolves, leaving behind only the mountain and the wind and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
Alex and I start back up the path toward the cache point where we left some of the gear. The climb back up is quieter. Slower. The adrenaline has burned through my system now, leaving clarity in its wake.
My head feels clean in a way it didn’t this morning.
Alex walks beside me for a while without saying anything. He knows better than to rush the silence.
About halfway back up the path, Alex glances sideways at me.
“You look like shit,” he says.
I let out a breath.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Too much to drink.”
He snorts.
“So I’ve heard.”
I glance at him.
He isn’t looking at me. He’s watching his footing on the wet rock, moving easily despite the incline.
“We only had one beer together,” he adds.
There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.
I rub the back of my neck.
“I had a few whiskeys before I met you,” I admit. “And more drinks at the Italian.”
He stops walking.
Turns his head slowly.
“I warned you.”
I wince slightly.
“And I hadn’t eaten all day,” I add.
He stares at me for a second longer.
Then he lets out a sharp breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief.
“Mate,” he says.
There’re a thousand things packed into that one word.
Idiot.
Why.
What were you thinking.
We start walking again.
“How mad was Christina?” he asks after a moment.
“Not very,” I say and I can’t stop the smile.
It spreads across my face before I can catch it, warm and disbelieving.
Alex notices immediately.
“What’s that smile about?”
I look out across the valley, the lake far below reflecting the shifting light through the cloud.
“She stayed,” I say.
The words still feel unreal.
“She made sure, and I quote, I didn’t choke on my own vomit.”
Alex barks out a laugh.
“Romantic.”
“And then we had breakfast this morning.”
His eyebrows rise.
“And?”
“And it was…” I hesitate. “Nice.”
The word feels insufficient.
“Well,” I correct, “more than nice.”
I swallow.
“And for once, I wasn’t nervous.”
That’s the part I still don’t fully understand. The ease of it. The quiet. The way my body stopped treating her like something dangerous.
“I held her hand.”
Even now, I can still feel it. The warmth of her fingers. The certainty of it.
Alex chuckles beside me.
“Jeez,” I mutter. “That makes me sound like a teenager who’s just been on his first date.”
“A little,” he agrees easily.
He glances at me. “But you’re falling for her.”
I don’t argue.
Because there’s nothing left to deny.
We reach the gear cache and collect the remaining equipment in comfortable silence. The mountain stretches around us, steady and familiar. Up here, everything makes sense. There’s no guessing. No second-guessing. Just the next step. The next hold.
Now I just need to work out what comes next with Christina.
When I get home, the cottage greets me with its usual stillness.
I kick off my boots in the utility room and strip off the damp layers, stuffing everything straight into the washing machine. The routine is automatic. Familiar. Grounding.
Upstairs, I shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders until the last of the mountain loosens its grip on my muscles.
By the time I pull on a clean shirt and shorts and head back downstairs, I feel human again.
I grab my phone from the kitchen counter.
There’s a missed message from Chris.
And several from Christina.
My chest tightens slightly as I open them.
Christina
Hey.
So, the Crazy Dogs want me to audition on Friday. Do you have time today or tomorrow to practice?
Just an hour or two. I only need to sing two songs for them, so I thought Living on a Prayer and Torn. What do you think?
There’s a longer gap before the next message.
Christina
Emma just reminded me you guys can't check your phones during rescues, so ignore my earlier message if it sounded like I expected an immediate reply.
I blame low blood sugar and emotional vulnerability.
Another pause.
Christina
Also, I cannot believe I briefly considered the possibility that you would ghost me when I literally watched you walk out of a café to go save someone on a mountain. That is a new personal low.
And then, because she is Christina:
Christina
Anyway. Text me whenever you’re back and no longer busy being heroic.
A few seconds later:
Christina
Not that I’m calling you heroic. Don’t let that go to your head.
Another pause.
Christina
Okay, maybe a little heroic.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, reading her messages again even though I already know what they say.
I can picture her as she wrote them. Sitting somewhere with her phone in one hand, probably talking out loud to herself. Frowning. Correcting herself. Refusing to pretend she hadn’t briefly spiralled.
Emma just reminded me you guys can't check your phones during rescue…
Also, I cannot believe I briefly considered the possibility that you would ghost me when I literally watched you walk out of a café to go save someone on a mountain.
A slow warmth spreads through my chest.
She doesn’t hide the messy parts. Doesn’t pretend she’s above doubt or embarrassment. She just… acknowledges it and moves forward.
Anyway. Text me whenever you’re back and no longer busy being heroic.
I snort quietly.
Heroic.
The word sits strangely in my chest.
She saw me less than twenty-four hours ago, kneeling on my bathroom floor with my head over the toilet. She saw me unable to stand properly. Unable to string together a sentence without sounding like an idiot.
She saw all of it.
And she still wrote that.
A slow warmth spreads through my chest, equal parts disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
She doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Doesn’t use it against me. Doesn’t withdraw.
She just… continues.
Like the worst version of me didn’t erase the rest.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type.
Me
I can practice today
I stare at it.
It looks abrupt. Unfriendly. Like I’m confirming a dentist appointment instead of asking to spend time with the woman who held my hand this morning like it belonged there.
I delete it.
Me
Today could work
That’s worse.
Uncertain. Noncommittal. Like I’m already preparing an escape route.
Delete.
I press the heel of my hand briefly against my forehead.
This is ridiculous.
I carried a grown man down Helvellyn less than an hour ago. I made decisions without hesitation. Trusted my body. Trusted my training. Trusted myself.
And yet this—this simple act of replying to her—makes me feel like I’m standing on unstable ground.
My phone buzzes.
Christina
You’re typing for a long time.
I let out a quiet groan.
Christina
This is either very promising or deeply concerning.
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.
Before I can overthink it again, I press call.
She answers almost immediately.
“Hey,” she says, warmth and amusement threading through her voice. “Typing taking too long?”
I lean back against the kitchen counter, grounding myself in the familiar shape of the room.
“I realised I was overcomplicating it,” I admit.
“That tracks,” she says easily. “You do seem like an overthinker.”
There’s no judgement in it. Just observation.
“I just got back,” I say.
“How was it?”
The question is gentle. Careful. She isn’t asking for details. Just the outcome.
“Broken leg,” I say. “On Helvellyn.”
She exhales softly.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be. He had his five year old son with him. The little guy did so well.”
Another small pause.
“I’m glad,” she says.
I close my eyes briefly, absorbing the quiet sincerity in her voice. She isn’t impressed. She isn’t romanticising it.
She just cares.
“I can practice today,” I say. “If you’re still up for it.”
“I am,” she replies without hesitation. “I finish at five.”
I picture her in the flower shop, sleeves rolled up, hair falling forward as she leans over a workbench.
“I’ll come to you straight after?” she adds.
My eyes drift toward the piano.
“Yeah,” I say. “Any time. I’m off today.”
“Okay.”
The word lands between us, heavier than it should be.
“I’ll see you later, Bambi.”
I huff out a quiet breath.
“See you.”
When the call ends, I stay where I am for a moment longer, phone still in my hand.
Five o’clock.
Too soon and not soon enough.
For the first time in a long time, the waiting doesn’t feel like something to endure.
It feels like something to move toward.