Chapter Three
Jax
Waking up feels like a mistake.
Not a gentle one. Not a slow, drifting return to consciousness.
It’s abrupt—a jolt that drags me out of the darkness I’d finally slipped into.
My eyelids flutter open to a world of rough-hewn beams overhead, warm lighting, the low hum of space heaters, and the unmistakable sterile scent of an underfunded clinic.
Alive. I’m alive.
A slow, burning fury curls up my spine before I can stop it. It’s not fear. It’s not relief. It’s anger, hot enough to scrape the inside of my ribs raw. Being alive feels like losing a second time—like the mountain offered me an escape and someone ripped it away at the last moment.
A voice to my left cuts through the haze.
“Well… good morning,” the medic says, his tone far too gentle. His name tag reads CAMPBELL. Mid-thirties. Steady posture. The kind of man who probably keeps a bowl of cough drops on his desk for “patient comfort.”
I already hate him.
“You gave us a scare,” he continues. “Hypothermia, bruised ribs, mild concussion. Honestly, you’re lucky.”
I let my eyes fall closed again. “Doesn’t feel like luck.”
Campbell sighs, the kind of sigh that says he deals with stubborn men for a living. “Look, we’ll keep you a couple hours for observation, but—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Yet I gave it anyway,” he says lightly, checking my vitals.
I consider telling him exactly where he can put his professional concern, but the door swings open before I get the chance.
Cold air rushes in.
And with it—a woman.
She steps inside with a confidence that hits like a slap of color against this muted room.
Snow still clings to the curls escaping her beanie.
Her cheeks are flushed from the wind. She’s bundled in layers, but even through them she radiates heat—bright, alive, irritatingly warm in a way that feels foreign in my world.
Her eyes find me, sweeping from my face to the monitors, lingering just long enough to register relief.
Relief. For me.
“Hey,” she says softly, smiling as she steps forward. “You’re awake. Good. I wasn’t sure you’d…” She clears her throat, collecting herself. “I’m Ava. Ava Dawson. I’m the EMT who found you.”
So that’s who she is.
The storm woman. The one whose voice I vaguely remember calling through the snow—though I can’t tell how much of that was real and how much was imagination.
I don’t thank her. I don’t greet her. I don’t smile back.
I just stare.
Campbell gives her a nod of recognition. “He’s still a little disoriented.”
“No,” I mutter. “I’m not.”
Ava’s smile falters, just a touch. “Right. Well… I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t back up. “That’s not really how rescue works.”
“I didn’t want to be rescued.”
Campbell shoots me a look sharp enough to cut glass. Ava’s expression shifts—not hurt exactly, but steadying, as if she’s bracing for impact.
“You were buried under an avalanche,” she says. “Hypothermic. Barely breathing. I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“Should have.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. “Is that really what you want to tell the person who kept you alive long enough to get here?”
“I didn’t ask to be kept alive.”
“Well,” she says, exasperation flickering across her face, “you didn’t exactly get a vote.”
Campbell clears his throat, muttering something about giving us space, but Ava ignores him. She steps closer, her gaze focused and assessing in the way medical people get when they’re trying to gauge your mental state without asking outright.
“We need to make sure you don’t have complications,” she says. “Concussion symptoms, rewarming side effects—”
“I said I’m fine.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You’re not. And being rude won’t change that.”
“I wasn’t aware rescuers required gratitude.”
“We don’t,” she says, crossing her arms. “But not actively biting our heads off is a nice start.”
Campbell snorts under his breath. I glare at him until he suddenly remembers a clipboard that needs sorting.
Ava exhales, clearly done trying to coax cooperation out of a man determined not to give it.
“Look,” she says quietly, “I’m glad you’re alive. Even if you’re currently acting like you’re mad about it.”
I don’t answer. Because she’s right. And that’s the worst part.
She waits a moment—one heartbeat too long—then steps back toward the door.
“You should let the medic finish his evaluation,” she says. “It’s important.”
“Noted.”
Her lips press into a flat line. “Okay then. Take care of yourself.”
She turns to leave, and for reasons I can’t explain, something in my chest pulls tight—like a thread straining but not breaking. I bite it back. She pauses at the doorway without turning around.
“And next time?” she says. “Try not to walk straight into an avalanche zone. I’d really prefer not to have to dig you out twice.”
Her voice carries warmth she doesn’t owe me. Warmth I don’t deserve. And it lands like a punch.
Then she’s gone, taking the softness with her, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the cold bite of my own regret.
Campbell shuts the door gently. “She saved your life, you know.”
I lie back against the thin pillow, jaw tight. “I know.”
“Most people would at least try not to offend their rescuer.”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued.”
He sighs. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were.”
I close my eyes, anger simmering beneath my ribs, mixing with something I don’t want to name. The mountain didn’t take me. She dragged me back.
And I have no idea why that feels like failure.