You weren’t exactly the “snowboard on vacation” type.

You were more of a “hot chocolate by the fire while everyone else breaks their tailbone” type. But your friends had insisted—“It’ll be fun! You’ll pick it up so fast!” Liars. All of them.

So now, here you were: standing stiffly at the top of a slope that looked more like a death slide than a beginner trail, strapped into a board that felt more like a coffin lid.

Your friends had already zipped ahead, yelling encouragement that got lost in the wind.

“Just lean into it!”

“Use your heels!”

“DON’T PANIC!”

Naturally, you panicked.

Your board caught the edge of some packed snow and launched you downhill like a missile. You screamed. You flailed. You begged whatever gods were listening for a soft landing. But gravity wasn’t in a good mood today.

Your momentum wouldn’t stop. The trees were a blur, your arms were windmilling, and the sheer speed had tears stinging your eyes. Then—miraculously—you saw people at the bottom. People meant help. Right?

Wrong.

In your desperation to stop, you lunged forward, grabbing at the nearest thing you could find.

A man.

Specifically, a very tall, broad-shouldered man in black thermal sweats.

More specifically, the waistband of said man’s sweats.

Your body slammed into his, and you landed squarely between his legs, face buried somewhere dangerously close to forbidden territory. You froze, still clutching the fabric of his pants, absolutely mortified.

He didn’t move.

You looked up slowly—and met eyes that were sharp, glacial, and unimpressed.

“…Are you done?” he asked flatly.

You couldn’t help it—you burst into laughter. A wild, unfiltered, “what is my life” kind of laugh as you lowered your head to the snow between his feet.

“Oh my god—I’m—I’m sorry—this wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

Behind him, his friend was absolutely losing it, doubled over and wheezing.

The man above you gave a tight sigh, his expression unreadable as he tugged his sweats up with one hand and looked down at you with pure disdain.

“Let go,” he said, voice dry and cold as the snow around you.

“I’m trying—I swear—it’s just I panicked—”

“Let. Go.”

You finally released him, falling backward into the snow with a dramatic thud. The man took one step back—his composure just barely holding—

—and immediately slipped.

He hit the ground with a dull thump, flat on his ass.

“Instant karma,” his friend choked out between gasps of laughter.

You were laughing again too, cheeks red from both the cold and humiliation.

The man stared up at the sky for a second like he was re-evaluating every life choice. Then his cool gaze slid back to you. He sat up slowly, dusting snow off his designer coat—unmistakably expensive. Still silent. Still icy.

Then, flatly he said “Here’s a tip—if you’re trying to get into a man’s pants, buy him a drink first.”

Then, with effortless grace—far more grace than anyone should have after falling on ice—he stood up