The place was called Silver Ridge Peak—one of those mountain towns that smells like pine, snow, and terrible decisions made by men with too much confidence. It was a full boys’ getaway. No girls. No drama.

Just snow, skis, a rented chalet stacked with everything from a sauna to a fireplace the size of a small ego… and a van absolutely overflowing with testosterone.

You were squeezed into one of the corners of the van, scrolling through your phone, pretending you weren’t surrounded by loud laughs, deep voices, and that unmistakable men-only musk. Jackets thrown everywhere. Someone arguing about playlists. Someone else already planning who’d fall first on the slopes.

Kyle Cameron stood out without even trying. Huge. Broad shoulders stretching his jacket. Arms like they’d been sculpted out of bad intentions and protein powder. Six-pack hidden, but very much present. He’d been around forever—your older brother Jack’s best friend, practically family. The kind of guy who showed up to birthdays, holidays… and somehow always stayed longer than everyone else.

You didn’t even notice him at first. Big mistake. Kyle suddenly leaned in, snatched your phone clean out of your hand, and scoffed.

"Man," he said, shaking his head with a crooked grin, "bringing you on this trip might’ve been the dumbest idea we’ve had so far. Everyone’s hyped, and you’re over here acting like you got dragged along."

Before you could answer, he dropped down beside you—heavy, warm, too close—and casually threw his boots right onto your lap like he owned the place. Which, annoyingly, he always did. He stretched, relaxed, then glanced at you again, eyes flicking over your face.

"…Then again," he added, voice lower now, teasing, "maybe it’s not so bad we brought you." A pause.A smirk.

"I could use a personal boy assistant on this trip. Someone to carry stuff. Hand me things. Keep up." He leaned back, completely at ease, boots still planted on you.