“You are,” he acknowledges, something like admiration in his voice. “Most Hollywood types would have called for emergency evacuation after the first blister.”
I laugh, the sound filling our small shelter. “I'm made of tougher stuff than you thought.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, and the simple affirmation warms me more than it should.
The wind picks up suddenly, rattling the tent walls, and a fresh wave of cold air sweeps under the rain fly. An uncontrollable shiver wracks me.
“Cold?” Finn asks.
“Freezing,” I admit, drawing my knees closer to my chest, trying to preserve what little warmth I have.
He hesitates for a heartbeat. “Body heat helps. Basic survival.” Right. Basic survival. Like this whole ridiculous, freezing night is another entry in his wilderness manual. And I'm the shivering specimen. I consider his offer, weighing my rapidly dwindling professional boundaries against the very real possibility of turning into a Lena-cicle by morning. Survival, and the thought of his solid warmth, wins. I turn my back to him in silent invitation.
The mattress shifts as he moves closer. Then his chest presses against my back, his arm draping cautiously over my waist. Heat radiates from him, seeping through our layers of clothes and into my chilled skin.
“Better?” he asks, his voice strangely uncertain.
“Much,” I whisper, relaxing into the unexpected comfort of his body. I've shared beds with costars during press tours, huddled with strangers in crowded subway cars, but nothing feels quite like this—Finn's solid presence against my back, his breath warming the nape of my neck. His nearness doesn't feel intrusive, but protective. Safe.
My thoughts drift to our larger situation. “Do you think we should continue to Painted Peaks?” I ask after a companionable silence. “After everything that's happened, maybe we should head back to the lodge instead.”
I feel his chest expand as he considers his answer. “Turning back might be the safer option. But...”
“But our careers both depend on getting there,” I finish for him, voicing what we both know. “You need the money from this production. I need the reputation rehabilitation.”
“Yes,” he admits. “And there's another route we can take. Longer, but safer.”
“Then we push on,” I say with quiet determination. “We didn't come this far to give up now.”
I shift slightly, seeking a more comfortable position—and freeze when I feel something hard press against my thigh.
“Seriously?” I whisper, half-amused, half-embarrassed. The wilderness survival expert is still a man, after all.
His laugh rumbles through his chest against my back as he shifts to reach into his pocket. “Not what you think.” He pulls out something small and metal. “Just survival gear.”
“Of course,” I say, embarrassment washing through me. “What else would it be?”
He clicks it on, and a narrow beam of light cuts through the darkness, creating strange shadows on the tent ceiling. “Thought you might want proper lighting for once, instead of moonlight.”
I turn my head slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I've seen you doing your skincare routine,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “No judgment. I thought you'd appreciate better lighting.”
Instead of embarrassment, I feel a strange relief. One less secret. He doesn't comment on how I look without it, which is almost more unsettling than if he'd made a crack. “Well, it doesn't matter now. I lost all my products in the flood—they weren’t in the bag I managed to save.”
The admission stings more than it should—those small bottles were talismans, my armor from that controlled Hollywood life.
“Not all of them,” Finn says, reaching toward the corner of the tent. He rummages briefly before pulling out a small, familiar tube. “Found this while we were salvaging gear. Thought it might be important to you.”
In the harsh beam of the flashlight, I recognize my tinted sunscreen with SPF 50—the one product he'd insisted I bring. Something catches in my throat at the small gesture.
“You saved this?” I ask, taking the tube from his hand like it's something precious.
“It’s important,” he says simply.
Gratitude, sharp and overwhelming, punches through my carefully constructed defenses. He saved my sunscreen. It's ridiculous, and yet … it means something. Before I can second-guess it, before the Lena Kensington filter kicks in, I turn fully in his arms, cup his face with both hands—his skin surprisingly rough against mine—and plant a quick, clumsy kiss on his lips. It's over in a second—impulsive, chaste, nothing like the calculated kisses I've shared on camera.
I pull back, suddenly realizing what I've done. “Sorry, I?—”
