Hearing my words repeated back brings an unexpected hint of amusement to my face. “You've been paying attention.”
“I'm a quick study.” She looks out across the valley we’ve been climbing away from, the flooded creek now a distant ribbon below. I follow her line of sight, seeing the landscape through a new perspective. The storm-swept valley, the peaks beyond, the sky stretching endless blue overhead.
“This place gets into your blood,” I say, understandingwhat she's feeling. “Makes everything else seem small in comparison.”
“Is that what happened to you?” she asks, turning to study my face. “Alaska got into your blood?”
“My family's been here for generations. We're part of this land as much as it's part of us.”
She nods, something wistful in her expression. “Must be nice, having that kind of belonging.”
“You don't have to play a part for Elliott,” I say, hearing something forced in her tone. “The real you is...” I hesitate, searching for the right word.
“Is what?” she asks when I don't finish.
Better. Stronger. More interesting. More beautiful.All these answers come to mind, but none seem right. “Is enough,” I finally say.
Something flashes in her expression—surprise, perhaps gratitude—before she rises from the log. “Thanks for the pep talk, wilderness man. Let's get this show on the road.”
The afternoon brings tougher hiking. The path grows steeper, rockier. Recent rains have turned solid ground to treacherous mud. I reach back to steady Lena on the worst sections, and she accepts the help without comment—a quiet shift from the woman who once bristled at needing it.
By mid-afternoon, dark clouds gather on the horizon. The metallic scent of approaching rain fills the air. We need to reach our camping spot before the weather turns.
A call comes from behind. “How much farther?” one of the crew asks, breathing hard from the climb.
“Two miles,” I estimate, checking the ridge ahead. “We can make it before dark if we keep moving.”
The first raindrops hit as we crest the final ridge. The clearing sits nestled between protective rock formations—a natural shelter that will protect us from the worst of the weather.
“Perfect timing,” Elliott says as the rain intensifies.
I direct the setup of our four remaining tents, positioning them where they'll get maximum protection from the elements. No one questions the arrangements anymore—necessity has overcome modesty. Dave and Carlos take one tent. Elliott and Miguel another. The two other camera operators take the third, leaving Lena and me to share the fourth.
While the others rush to unpack before the rain soaks everything, I see Lena examining the surrounding vegetation with interest. “Something catch your attention?” I ask, joining her at the edge of the clearing.
“Wild chamomile,” she says, pointing to small flowers nestled among the rocks. “Good for inflammation, helps with sleep. And over there—” she gestures to another plant “—alpine arnica. My grandmother used it for muscle aches and bruises.”
I regard her with new appreciation. “Your grandmother taught you well.”
“I wish I'd paid more attention,” she admits, a hint of regret in her voice. “I was so focused on becoming someone else that I discarded a lot of valuable knowledge.”
The honesty in her confession surprises me. “It's not lost,” I say. “You still have it. It's part of you, even if it was buried for a while.”
Her eyes meet mine, something vulnerable and questioning in her expression. Before she can respond, the skies open, sending sheets of rain down around us. We dash to the shelter of our tent, laughing despite the soaking we're getting in the process.
Inside, I catch myself thinking about boundaries again. Professional. Practical. Necessary. But as I watch Lena wring water from her hair, those boundaries seem increasingly meaningless. The woman before me isn't a client or a responsibility. She's something more complicated, more important. And that realization is more dangerous than anything we've faced so far.
Chapter Fourteen
LENA
Rain hammers against our tent,turning the thin fabric into a drum. The temperature drops with the sunset, chasing away the day's warmth and replacing it with a damp chill that settles deep in our bones. I wring water from my hair, watching droplets splash onto the tent floor.
“Some shelter,” I say, shivering as cold air finds its way under my collar.
Finn rummages through his pack, efficient even in our cramped quarters. “Better than nothing. This storm would've been miserable without the tents.”
The close confines of our shelter force an intimacy neither of us expected. When we shared a tent before, exhaustion made it simpler—two bodies needing warmth in icy darkness. But now, awake and aware, every shift is amplified. Every accidental brush of skin, every shared breath, feels like a live wire in the small space. The touch of his arm against mine as he unrolls his sleeping bag. The subtle scent of pine and sweat clinging to his skin. The way his eyes meet mine, then shift away like he’s not sure he’s allowed to linger.
