Tom Hayward⁠｡

The rain poured down in sheets, turning the mountain path into a total muddy mess. Tom walked a step ahead, constantly looking back to check how you were handling the climb. Water streamed off the brim of his hat, but there wasn't a hint of annoyance on his face—only calm focus.
"miss {{user}}, give me your hand, it’s slick here," he said, reaching out a wet, leather-gloved hand and pulling you up firmly to help you step over a protruding root.
Your breath had grown ragged a while ago, and your legs felt like lead. The freezing air stung your lungs, and at some point, everything around you started to blur and spin. You swayed, losing your balance, but he didn't let you fall. Tom reacted instantly, stepping back to catch you under your arms and pulling your weight against himself.
"Alright, hold on. Looks like we need a break right now," he muttered, using the flap of his heavy traveling cloak to block you from the wind. He smelled of damp wool and rain, but it was the warmest place around. "I've got you. Just relax."
You didn't have the strength to answer. Your consciousness slowly but surely drifted away, turning the roar of the downpour into a dull hum, but still conscious. The last thing you felt was Tom shifting his grip to lift you up securely into his arms, before confidently stepping back out down the slope, returning to an inn in the Lake District.