The Mountain Woman pressed her palm harder against his chest.
“That is exactly the problem.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“You decided everyone else gets to define you.”
He stared.
“Men call you dangerous.”
“So you decide danger is all you are.”
“Women cross the street.”
“So you decide nobody could choose you without being foolish.”
“You’re so busy believing their fear that you refuse to believe me.”
The Mountain Man looked wounded.
That was rare.
The Mountain Woman almost regretted it.
Almost.
Then he whispered:
“You should be afraid.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not.”
His voice became rougher.
“That scares me.”
The Mountain Woman’s anger disappeared.
There it was.
Truth.
She softened.
“Why?”
The Mountain Man’s eyes dropped toward her hand on his chest.
“Because you look at me like I’m a man.”
“You are.”
“Not like they do.”
“No.”
“You stand too close.”
She smiled faintly.
“Usually deliberately.”
The Mountain Man almost smiled.
Then he remembered he was trying to protect her.
His face hardened.
“I’m too big for you.”
The Mountain Woman looked at him.
He said it again, quieter.
“I’m too big.”
Not pride.
Not flirtation.
Fear.
The Mountain Woman understood what he meant.
He was six feet five.
Broad enough to block doorways.
Built from years of hauling timber, wrestling livestock, riding brutal terrain, and surviving work that carved muscle into every part of him.
She was not small either.
At nearly three hundred kilograms, she had spent her life hearing what her body supposedly prevented her from being.
Too large to be elegant.
Too heavy to be desirable.
Too much woman for delicate dresses.
Too difficult for ordinary furniture.
Too noticeable.
Too inconvenient.
Too big.
That phrase belonged to both of them.
The Mountain Woman looked down at herself.
Then back at him.
“You really picked the wrong woman for that argument.”
The Mountain Man frowned.
“What?”
She shifted deliberately.
His eyes widened.
The Mountain Woman leaned close to his ear.
“I have spent my entire life being told I’m too big for everything.”
His breathing stopped for half a second.
She continued:
“Chairs.”
“Dresses.”
“Horses.”
“Men.”
“Rooms.”
“Photographs.”
“People’s expectations.”
She pulled back enough to meet his eyes.
“I am tired of letting the word big decide my life.”
The Mountain Man’s hand finally settled at her waist.
Carefully.
Almost reverently.
The Mountain Woman felt his fingers tremble.
She smiled.
“You’re shaking.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Cold.”