4. Gray #2
Leo finally looks at me. "You scared yet, Doc?"
I lift a brow. "Should I be?"
He laughs. "No. But the way you keep looking at those slopes like they're about to swallow you whole, I figured I'd ask."
"I'm fine," I say, and it even sounds convincing.
Daniel finally shuts off the engine, pocketing his phone. "He'll be fine," he says, reaching for his gloves. "Besides, worst-case scenario, he's a whole doctor. He can treat himself if he breaks something."
"Asshole," I mutter, and Daniel grins, unbothered.
Leo chuckles, slapping me on the shoulder. "Relax. You'll love it. The trick is to stop overthinking and trust the snow."
"Trust the snow," I repeat flatly. "That sounds like terrible medical advice."
They laugh, the sound carrying in the cold. Truth is, I do trust them—more than I've trusted anyone outside of medicine. That's not something I say out loud, but it's there, in the quiet comfort of knowing they'll have my back.
It still amazes me sometimes, how it all started.
Daniel and I met years ago at a university mixer I didn't even want to attend.
I was in my first year of med school—exhausted, socially awkward, surrounded by people who thought being a doctor automatically meant I was good at small talk.
Daniel was finishing undergrad, sharp suit and sharp jawline, already half a legend in his law department.
That night, a group of drunk Alphas had started hassling a nervous, unbonded Omega near the bar.
I remember Daniel moving before anyone else—no hesitation, just that protective instinct that defines him.
I followed, partly because I hated bullies and partly because something in me recognized something in him.
We handled it together, calm but firm. He thanked me afterward, bought me a drink I didn't even want, and somehow we ended up talking about philosophy and justice and how neither of us slept enough.
Late-night study sessions followed. Walks home through quiet streets became routine.
Shared coffee at dawn before exams went from a friendly gesture to a ritual.
The bond between us wasn't loud or obvious; it was steady, inevitable.
By the time he was in his second year of law school, it felt natural—like breathing—to call him mine.
Then there was Leo.
He crashed into our lives—and I mean that literally.
Daniel and I were on a hiking trip in the Rockies, trying to unplug.
We stumbled across a trail accident: a group of college kids caught in bad weather.
Leo was hauling an injured climber down the mountain, face streaked with mud, eyes blazing with determination.
Even then, he had that reckless energy, the kind that draws people in.
We worked together all night—me patching wounds, Daniel coordinating with the rangers, Leo keeping the group calm with his easy laughter.
When the last kid was safe, we sat around a fire, numb fingers clutching tin mugs of lukewarm coffee.
Somewhere between exhaustion and sunrise, it became clear that the three of us just… fit.
That's how we became a pack.
Now, years later, standing in front of another mountain, that same balance is still there. Daniel's steady, Leo's electric, and I'm somewhere in between, grounding them both.
"All right, gentlemen," Leo says now, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get moving before the best snow gets packed down."
We climb out. The cold bites instantly—crisp and alive, the kind that wakes every nerve ending. Daniel hands me my gloves, then adjusts his goggles. He looks effortlessly composed, as usual. Leo's already bouncing on his feet, tightening the ski clips.
"Still time to back out," Daniel says with a smirk.
"Not a chance," I reply, tightening the straps on my boots.
Leo grins. "That's the spirit."
We trudge toward the slope. The snow squeaks beneath our boots, sunlight bouncing off the surface so bright it's almost blinding. I inhale deeply—pine, cold air, faint traces of woodsmoke from the cabins down below.
There's music playing faintly from the rental hut, some old rock song bleeding into the wind. Families are laughing, kids tumbling through snowbanks, the smell of cocoa and fresh pretzels drifting up from the base area.
We stop at the bottom of the run, skis in hand, as Leo launches into what I'm fairly sure is an unnecessarily dramatic safety briefing.
"All right," he says, gesturing with his pole like a preacher. "Rule number one: lean with the slope, not against it. Rule number two: if you fall, fall forward, not sideways. Rule number three: never, under any circumstance, try to look cool. You'll die."
Daniel groans. "That's very reassuring."
Leo grins. "Hey, I'm trying to keep you both alive. Besides, once you get the hang of it, it's the best feeling in the world. Like flying."
I roll my eyes but say nothing. We put the skis down, then step in, the cold metal of the bindings clicking into place. My pulse thrums a little faster than I'd like to admit.
Then something catches Daniel's attention. He pauses, gaze narrowing slightly as he looks toward the parking area. A man in a dark leather coat stands there, watching the slopes. Tall, broad-shouldered, hood pulled low.
"You know him?" I ask quietly.
Daniel shakes his head, frowning. "No. But… he looks kind of familiar."
"From where?"
"I don't know." His tone is distracted, unsettled in that subtle way that makes my stomach tighten. Daniel doesn't get uneasy easily.
Before I can ask more, Leo's already started toward the chairlift queue, calling back, "Let's go! You two can gossip later."
Daniel exhales, shaking it off. He presses his poles into the ground to propel himself forward. "Come on."
We follow, taking a chairlift to the top of the bunny slopes.
The snow is firm underfoot, the air thinner as we climb.
I can feel the old ache in my knee threatening to flare, but adrenaline keeps it at bay.
When we get off, after nearly wiping out as we exit, Leo turns to face us, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Ready?" he calls.
"No," I mutter.
Daniel laughs. "You've got this, Gray."
I give him a look. "If I die, I'm haunting you."
"Wouldn't be the first time," he says lightly, then pushes off down the slope like it's nothing.
What the hell does that mean? Oh, if I die, I'm so going to kill them.
Leo follows, shouting something incoherent about wind and freedom.
I take a deep breath. The view stretches out before me—endless white, dotted with pines, sunlight scattering off the snow like shards of glass. For a second, my heart thunders in my chest. Then I push off.
The first few seconds are mayhem. The skis wobble, my balance teeters, my body fights instinct.
Then, somehow, it clicks. My weight shifts forward, the world starts to move beneath me, and suddenly I'm gliding.
The cold air stings my face, wind roaring in my ears, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something close to joy.
It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. It's… fun.
I laugh—actually laugh—and Leo's voice echoes somewhere ahead, cheering like a maniac. Daniel's a blur of blue and black to my left, steady as ever. For once, I'm not thinking about the hospital, about patients, about what might go wrong. I'm just here, alive, flying over snow.
When we finally slow to a stop near the bottom, I'm breathless, grinning like an idiot. Leo claps me on the back hard enough to jolt me forward. "See? What did I tell you?"
"That I'd die," I manage between breaths.
"And yet, here you are. Thriving."
Daniel slides to a stop beside us, snow spraying from his skis. He looks at me, that proud little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not bad, Doctor."
"Not bad yourself, Counselor."
It's just the three of us—breath steaming in the cold, laughter hanging in the air, sunlight painting the mountain gold.
And I don't know if it's the altitude or the adrenaline, but I feel weightless.