Elliott's voice breaks the quiet. “Finn! How long before Dave can travel? We need to get moving if we're going to make up lost time.”
I finally turn on him, the anger I've been swallowing sincethe ravine incident boiling over. “The only reason we've 'lost time,' Elliott, is because you wouldn't listen to me. Lena's ankle, the flash flood, all of it—this entire mess is on you because you had to get your perfect shot,” I say, leaving no room for argument. “We're staying put.”
Elliott has the decency to flush, grumbling as he stalks away.
With Dave stable and the immediate crisis over, we turn our attention to making camp functional. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Time to prioritize what matters most.
“First priority is fire,” I say, gathering the driest kindling I can find. “Then we pack the remaining food and secure the perimeter.”
Lena kneels beside me, arranging tinder. “I'll help. Once we get it going, we can start drying the sleeping bags.”
Our fingers work in tandem, building a small tepee of twigs and strips of birch bark I'd collected earlier. Within minutes, we have a spark caught and nursed into a flame. Lena feeds it with patience, adding fuel with precision, surprising me with her skill.
“Girl Scouts,” she offers, seeing my expression. “Plus, I’ve watched a few survival reality shows.”
Carlos and Dave construct a makeshift rack near the growing fire, where saturated sleeping bags hang steaming in the heat. Elliott directs a camera operator to capture it all, the lens focusing on Lena's determined expressions as she sorts through the supplies, separating what can be saved from what cannot.
I turn back in time to see Lena kneeling by the stream, washing her hands with care. I join her, collecting water. “Dave's resting easier. Color's back.”
She nods. “Keep giving him the tea. It'll help.”
“I will. And thank you.”
She shrugs. “Right plants. Right place.”
“No,” I say, my voice gentle. “That was you. That was knowledge.”
She meets my eyes at last. “My grandmother always said the plants know what to do. You have to listen.”
“Smart woman.”
Lena's lips curve. “The smartest. But the world I chose didn't value her kind of wisdom.”
“Perhaps you chose the wrong world.”
She doesn't respond at first, but then, in a low voice, she says, “Perhaps I did.”
A silence falls between us, warm and weighted. She lifts her hand from the water, droplets catching the sun. Without thinking, I catch one with my thumb. Her breath hitches. Our eyes meet and hold.
“Finn,” she whispers.
“Lena! We need you for the recovery scene!” Elliott again, with his impeccable timing.
She pulls her arm away, rising with a wince.
“You should rest that ankle,” I say.
“Some things are worth the pain,” she says, brushing my hand as she walks past.
I watch her cross the clearing. The crew nods as she passes. Even Elliott regards her differently. Something changed today. Not in them. In her. The mask isn't gone, but it's thinner now. And I wonder if what's underneath might be worth risking everything for.
As I prepare our reduced rations, my attention keeps sliding her way. Once, our eyes meet across the camp, and she doesn’t look away. A slight upturn tugs at the corner of her mouth—not the polished, on-cue smile she gives the camera, but something smaller. Quieter.Real.Warmth meant only for me. The realization hits with a dangerous jolt.
This expedition has enough complications without addingunexpected feelings for a woman who lives in a different world. A woman who will return to Hollywood when this is over, slipping back into the role society expects her to play. Yet as she helps distribute the meal, stopping to check on Dave with concern, I find it difficult to remember why maintaining professional distance matters. Especially when her fingers brush mine as she accepts her portion, the contact brief but electric.
“Careful,” she says. “It's hot.” Her words could apply to more than the food and judging by the way her eyes linger on mine, she knows it too.
The sun drops behind the treetops, washing the sky in rust and fading gold. Around our fire, the sleeping bags finish drying, the last bit of steam gone from the fabric.
