You need help, Professor ?

CALEB

A week after Professor Elliot Ward told me I was “just another student,” I found him halfway up Frost Ridge with a twisted ankle.

The hiking trail curled through the mountains just outside Silverpine, a narrow path cut between snow-dusted pines and jagged rocks. Most people stuck to the lower trails this time of year, but I liked the quiet up there.

I’d almost reached the halfway point when I heard the sound.

“Hello?” I called.

For a moment, no one answered.

Then, from somewhere off the trail, a familiar voice snapped, “I’m perfectly not fine.”

I frowned.

That voice.

I stepped off the trail and around a large pine tree.

Professor Elliot Ward sat on a flat rock near the edge of the path, one leg stretched stiffly in front of him, the other bent awkwardly. Snow clung to the dark fabric of his coat.

He looked up. Of all the people to find him, it had to be me.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

“Mr. Foster.”

I crossed my arms. “Professor.”

He looked annoyed already.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“Hiking.”

I glanced at his ankle.

“Looks like that’s going great.”

“I slipped,” he said shortly. “It’s nothing serious.”

I stepped closer, crouching slightly to get a better look.

His boot was angled wrong.

Even I could see that.

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I assure you,” he said, voice clipped, “I’m capable of walking down the mountain on my own.”

“Sure you are.”

He braced his hands on the rock and pushed himself upright.

The moment he put weight on the injured foot, his expression tightened and he grabbed the nearby tree for balance.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Still got it under control?”

He shot me a sharp look.

“Yes.”

Then he tried to take a step.

His ankle buckled.

Before he could fall, I grabbed his arm.

He stiffened instantly.

“I’m fine,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Professor, you’re about one bad step away from rolling halfway down Frost Ridge.”

“I am not—”

I crouched and hooked an arm behind his knees before he could protest.

“What are you doing—”

I lifted him.

He was lighter than I expected, but still solid weight as I straightened.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“Mr. Foster.”

“Relax.”

His hands grabbed my shoulders as the ground shifted beneath him.

“Put. Me. Down.”

“I’m getting you back to the trailhead.”

“This is unnecessary.”

“You can’t walk.”

“I can.”

“You just proved you can’t.”

His grip tightened slightly on my jacket.

For someone insisting he was fine, he wasn’t letting go.

The trail stretched downwards through the trees as I started walking.

Snow crunched under my boots.

“Mr. Foster,” he said again, voice tight with irritation, “this is entirely inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?”

“Yes.”

I glanced down at him.

“You’re carrying me.”

“Because your ankle’s wrecked.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

His gaze flicked towards the trail ahead.

“We are in public.”

“There’s nobody up here.”

“There will be,” he replied sharply.

Pine branches rustled above us as the wind shifted.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“You need to put me down before someone sees this.”

I almost laughed.

“Why?”

“You’re my student.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re carrying me down a mountain.”

“You’d rather crawl?”

“That’s not what I—”

He stopped mid-sentence, clearly realizing arguing wasn’t helping.

I adjusted my grip slightly.

“Relax, Professor. Your reputation will survive.”

“That’s not the concern.”

“Oh?”

His jaw set again.

“You’re the captain of the hockey team. I’m a faculty member. If someone from campus sees this, the situation could be… misinterpreted.”

Now I actually laughed.

“You think people are going to assume something scandalous because I helped my injured professor down a hiking trail?”

“Yes.”

Silverpine really was that kind of town.

Still, I kept walking.

The trees began thinning as the lower part of the trail came into view.

Ward shifted slightly in my arms.

“Mr. Foster.”

“What?”

“Put me down.”

“We’re almost there.”

“That’s precisely why you should put me down.”

I slowed but didn’t stop.

“You’re worried about appearances.”

“Yes.”

“You really care that much about what people think?”

He looked straight at me.

“Yes.”

The parking area at the base of the trail came into view through the trees.

A couple of cars sat near the snow-covered fence.

Ward noticed them at the same time I did.

“Mr. Foster,” he said firmly, “put me down.”

I finally stopped.

The ground crunched under my boots as I carefully lowered him until his good foot touched the dirt.

The moment he was steady, he stepped back—putting a deliberate amount of distance between us.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

“Anytime.”

He adjusted the sleeve of his coat, clearly regaining control of himself. Then, he glanced towards the parking lot again.

“Now,” he said, voice returning to its calm, professor tone, “let’s ensure no one from campus sees us standing here together for too long.”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face.

Professor Elliot Ward might not want rumours.

But after carrying him down a mountain?

I had a feeling this wasn’t the last unusual situation we’d end up in.