Her legs buckled. She crawled forward through knee-deep snow.
“I won’t leave you,” she said. “I’m not like them. I won’t pretend you don’t exist.”
The man—Lucas “Hawk” Dennison—was enormous. Blood crusted his face. Muscles and scars visible even through the snow-covered leather. His vest bore a faded phoenix patch, wings outstretched, like he had survived storms before. Too heavy. Too broken. Yet, she kept pulling.
The first attempt failed. The second, her body screamed in pain. The third, he shifted an inch. That inch was enough.
She leveraged the sled, pushed, dragged, slipped, fell, and tried again. For three hours, fifty grueling yards. Each step a battle against exhaustion, frostbite, and fear.
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