“Here,” he says, offering me a small towel. “It's not much, but it's dry.”
Our fingers brush as I take it, a brief touch that shouldn't mean anything. Yet I find myself aware of the roughness of his hands, the small calluses earned through work. Real hands. Hands that build things, fix things, save people.
“Thanks.” I pat myself dry, suddenly conscious—again—of my bare face. Days on the trail have stripped away every trace of makeup, and though I’ve grown used to the feel of clean, unpainted skin, the self-awareness still flares up when I least expect it.
No foundation to blur imperfections. No contour carving out cheekbones. No mascara lifting my eyes. In L.A., a whole team manages my face—makeup artists, hairstylists, dermatologists with their injectable miracles. My contracts even forbid bare-faced photos.
I touch my cheek, skin chapped and a little windburned. I know what I must look like—blotchy, tired, hair frizzed from the rain. A PR disaster. And yet, sitting here, after everything we’ve faced, it feels ridiculous to care.
That realization isn’t new—but it still catches me off guard. Vulnerable. Free.
“You're shivering,” Finn observes, unfolding an emergency blanket. “Wet clothes in dropping temperatures is how hypothermia starts.”
“What’s your professional recommendation?” I ask, aiming for lightness despite my chattering teeth.
“Change into whatever dry clothes you have left. I’ll turn away.”
He moves to face the tent wall, giving me as much privacy as possible in the small space.
I dig through my pack, finding a thermal shirt and leggings that are mostly dry. Changing in the narrow tent takes theagility of a yoga instructor, but I manage—barely—knocking into the canvas more than once.
“You can turn around now,” I say when I’m decent.
Finn has changed too—into a dry flannel shirt that’s seen better days. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. A different kind of strength. Useful. Capable. Earned.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, though the chill hasn't left my bones. “Getting there.”
Outside, the wind picks up, driving rain against the tent in rhythmic waves. The temperature continues to drop as night deepens around us. Despite my dry clothes, I can't stop shivering. Finn sees it, of course. He notices everything.
“Your body temperature is still down,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “The sleeping bags are damp from the flood, but body heat is still the most efficient way to warm up.”
Last night's arrangement—my back against his chest, his arm around my waist—flashes through my mind. The memory brings warmth that has nothing to do with temperature regulation. “Practical survival,” I say, the words a shield I'm throwing up, mostly against myself. “Don't get any ideas about this being a romantic wilderness moment.” Liar. My heart is doing the cha-cha.
He smiles. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
We arrange ourselves side by side, shoulders touching, the emergency blanket spread over both of us. It crinkles with every movement, sharp and cold against the rain’s steady beat.
“Better?” he asks again.
“Getting there.” The warmth radiating from his body already makes a difference. “So. Here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agrees.
Silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but like we were both waiting for something. Being this close, we'll have to talkeventually, yet neither of us starts. There's safety in silence—no revelations, no vulnerabilities exposed.
“Why Alaska?” I ask at last, curious. “When there's an entire world out there, why stay in one small corner of it?”
He considers the question with the seriousness he gives everything. “Hard to explain to someone who's spent their life chasing the next horizon. It's not about staying in one place—it's
about knowing a place deeply. Understanding its seasons, its moods. Belonging somewhere.”
“Not even in Hollywood? You seemed to fit with all that glitz.”
I laugh, the sound sharper than intended. “That's the ultimate pretend game. Everyone's playing a part, hoping no one notices the cracks.” I draw the blanket tighter around me. “I was better at the game than most.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Did you ever feel seen there?”
