Elliott stands, clipboard in hand, assessing our four remaining tents. “Carlos, Dave and I will bunk with a crew member in three tents.” His eyes move meaningfully between Lena and me. “That leaves you two in the fourth.”
Lena rises from beside the fire, where she's been checking the dried sleeping bags. “You're sure that's the best arrangement?”
Elliott's lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. “Absolutely. Makes the most logistical sense.” The way he says it makes it clear that logistics are the last thing on his mind. I recognize the calculation instantly. The casual suggestion, the manufactured proximity—it's the tension he mentioned wanting to “play up” for the cameras. The network's grand plan unfolding in real time.
“I'm fine with it if Finn is,” Lena says, turning to me. “You're the wilderness expert, after all.”
The crew exchanges knowing glances. Carlos finds his bootlaces fascinating. The others busy themselves with equipment, but not before I catch their raised eyebrows.
“Fine by me,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “We need to conserve body heat.”
Elliott cannot hide his triumphant grin. “Perfect. The wilderness survival expert and the star sharing shelter. Very ... authentic.”
Lena gives him a cool stare. “Practical, Elliott. The word you're seeking is practical.”
But Elliott's expression tells me everything I need to know. This is what he wanted—physical proximity creating emotional stakes, the tension he promised the network. In his mind, the ratings are already climbing.
Night falls with unnerving speed across our makeshift camp. Stars pierce the darkness overhead—brilliant pinpricks through black velvet, untouched by city lights. The fire crackles, casting long shadows across tired faces as we finish our meager dinner and administer Dave's medicine.
“They all think we're waiting until they sleep before slipping away together,” she says, voice low enough that only I can hear.
I poke the dying embers. “Elliott probably has a camera ready.”
Her laugh comes soft in the darkness. “Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to manufacture a scandal around me.”
“Is that what this is? Manufacturing a scandal?”
She meets my eyes, the firelight casting her features in gold. “No. This is surviving.”
She registers my expression. “Stop looking like I surprise you by breathing. I'm capable of more than any of us thought, me included.”
“I could sleep by the fire,” I offer. “You don't have to sacrifice your privacy.”
“My privacy?” The bitter edge in her laugh surprises me. “That commodity got sold years ago.”
One by one, headlamps extinguish as people retreat to their assigned shelters, bodies craving rest after the day's trials. Professional boundaries be damned. We're in this situation together, and with each passing day, Lena Kensington is making it harder for me to remember why getting involved would be a terrible idea. The worst part? I'm starting not to care.
Chapter Twelve
LENA
Darkness in Alaska feels alive—abreathing, pulsing thing that presses against our tent walls. No streetlights or city glow to dilute it. Pure, undiluted night. I lie next to Finn, acutely aware of every inch of space between us, listening to his measured breathing.
The tent Elliott assigned us—no doubt with a leering internal chuckle—barely fits two people. With our sleeping bags still damp from the flood, we've spread them beneath us like makeshift, lumpy mattresses, huddling under scratchy emergency blankets that are clearly more 'emergency' than 'blanket' for actual warmth.
Finn's restlessness is palpable. I swear I could hear his thoughts churning.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” I whisper, breaking the silence. “I can practically hear you cataloging all the disasters that might strike next.”
“Force of habit,” he replies, his voice low in the darkness. “Someone has to prepare for the worst.”
“Mmm, and that someone is always you, isn't it?” I say, understanding rather than mocking. Men like Finn carry theweight of others' safety on their shoulders like it's nothing. Like it's expected.
I turn onto my side to face him, though I can barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. My body aches in places I didn't know could hurt, muscles protesting against another day of pushing limits.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me. “Tomorrow won't be easy.”
“None of the days have been easy,” I counter. “But I'm still here.”
