Offer Heather your hand to help her down

You pivot easily at the base of the icy ledge, shifting your weight to lock your boots firmly against the packed snow. Turning back toward Heather, you reach up and offer her your hand.

“Here,” you say, your voice a steady, grounding presence amidst the howling wind. “Take my hand. It’s a bit slick right here.”

Heather looks down at your outstretched hand, a brief flash of hesitation crossing her features before she reaches out. Even through her winter gear, you can feel the slight tremble in her frame as her fingers clasp tightly around yours. Her grip is surprisingly ****, anchoring herself to your strength.

As she steps off the ledge, her boot catches slightly on a patch of black ice. She loses her footing with a soft gasp, her voluptuous body tilting directly forward. Reacting instantly, your grip tightens and you pull her toward you, using your body to absorb her momentum.

For a breathless, heavy second, Heather is pressed completely against your chest. The thick layers of your coats do little to mask the sudden, explosive heat of her body or the rapid, frantic thudding of her heart against your ribs. Her hands instinctively fly to your shoulders for balance, her face tilted up just inches from yours. Up close, her hazel eyes are wide, glassy, and completely dark with a raw, overwhelming mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur down to her, keeping your grip firm on her waist to ensure she’s steady. “You’re okay.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, her breath pluming in a warm cloud between your faces. She doesn’t immediately pull away. Instead, she lingers for a fraction of a second, her fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your shoulders as she absorbs the comforting, protective weight of your hold. “I... I think my knees are still a little weak from earlier.”

A sharp, deliberate throat-clearing from just a few feet up the path shatters the moment.

You look past Heather’s shoulder to see Vicky standing atop the ledge she just descended. The corporate strategist has her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her piercing ice-blue eyes narrowed into a cold, fiercely analytical glare as she watches the two of you. Her jaw is tightly clenched, a tense, territorial energy radiating from her rigid posture as she waits for you to clear the path.

“If the mountain rescue demonstration is finished,” Vicky says, her voice dripping with dry, biting sarcasm, “some of us would actually like to get out of the freezing cold before our toes fall off.”

Heather immediately flushes an even deeper crimson, quickly stepping back out of your arms and smoothing down her fleece, entirely self-conscious under the younger woman’s intense scrutiny.