He tasted of blood and ice and murky river water. His grip on her arm was hard enough to bruise, and she was off-balance and awkwardly bent, one hand braced on his chest where she'd tried to hold him down, the other curled painfully in her lap. It was still quite possibly the best kiss of her life.

Teenage infatuation didn't hold a candle to survival.

She broke away slower than she should have, sooner than she liked. At least she could blame her breathlessness on near-drowning and rescue-breathing, even if it wasn't altogether true. "I like you alive," she panted, "much more than as a frozen corpse. I'd like it if you stayed that way, too. Which isn't going to happen if we stay here. Can you move?"

She wasn't quite sure she could. If he tried first, at least he'd give her a goal to reach for.