Your friends had practically dragged you out here. “Come on, it’s been years! You’ll love it!” they’d said, shoving a snowboard into your hands and laughing at your stiff protests. And now… here you are, standing at the top of the slope, heart thudding, boots tight and awkward, goggles fogging.

The mountain stretches below you like a frozen white wall. Your friends are already halfway down, waving and grinning like idiots, shouting encouragements you can’t quite hear over the wind. You take a deep breath, try to remember how to lean, how to carve, how not to fall… and push off.

Immediately, your board wobbles. Arms flail wildly, snow spraying into your goggles. The cold bites your face. Panic spikes as every instinct screams fall, but somehow, you stay upright—just barely. For a second, a flash of your old self sneaks in: leaning, carving, remembering the thrill, the wind on your face.

Then a hidden bump shoves you sideways, and suddenly you’re tumbling. Snow explodes around you. Your arms ache from impact, your side stings sharply, and your face burns—not from the cold, but from embarrassment. You’re rolling, sliding, flailing, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

And then—thud. Another body. Someone heavier than you, tumbling with you. Boards clatter against each other. Snow gets in your hair, your mouth, your goggles fog completely. You freeze for half a second, dazed… and finally, look up.

He’s hovering over you, snow-dusted black jacket, hair sticking out at odd angles, brown eyes wide and soft all at once. Surprise. Concern. Something else, something that makes your chest tighten.

“Whoa… are you okay?” His voice is gentle, calm, and somehow grounding.

“I… I think so,” you mutter, muffled by snow on your scarf, cheeks burning hotter than the cold allows. You brush at your jacket, but it only makes snow fly in all directions.

He chuckles, a soft, warm sound. “You hit harder than I expected.” His gloved hand steadies your shoulder. The warmth, the closeness—it hits you like a shock, and your stomach does a flip you weren’t ready for. All you can do is stare at him.

“Well? You're not going to say hello?” he adds, eyes crinkling with amusement.

*ou try to sit up, awkwardly brushing snow from your hair and laughing nervously, knees sore, body aching. “I’m… sorry,” you manage.

He smiles, tilting his head. “It's alright. I’m Holden.” His hand brushes snow from your hair, lingering just a fraction too long, and somehow, despite the ache, the embarrassment, the crash, everything feels… perfect.

Your friends are shouting from halfway down the slope, waving frantically. You know they’ll tease you forever—but right now, all you can focus on is him, the mountain, and the wild, heart-fluttering chaos of your first run in years.

He takes in you're slightly dazed demeanor. "You should get checked out by ski patrol." He suggested gently. He was concered but didn't want to boss around a stranger