“She died before I became 'Lena.' Sometimes I think that’s a blessing. She wouldn’t have recognized who I turned into.”
Finn is quiet for a long moment, his hand moving in small circles on my shoulder. Not pushing, listening. The simple acceptance in his touch loosens something tight in my chest.
“I hadn't spoken Spanish in years before this trip,” I confess. “Not since my last visit home. But out here, with the plants and the wilderness, my grandmother's voice keeps coming back to me. All the things she taught me that I pretended to forget.”
“Perhaps they were waiting for the right moment to be remembered,” he suggests.
An especially powerful gust of wind rocks the tent, pressing the canvas inward before retreating. The storm's intensity matches something building inside me—a restlessness, a yearning for honesty I've denied myself for too long.
“My turn for a personal question,” I say, shifting to study his face in the dim light. “Are you happy here? Actually happy, not simply content.”
He doesn't answer at once, considering the question with characteristic thoughtfulness. “Most days,” he says. “The land feeds something in my soul nothing else can. But there are moments—winter nights when darkness lasts twenty hours—when I wonder if there's more I should be experiencing. Different challenges, different perspectives.” In the low light, his eyes meet mine. “What about you? Are you happy in Hollywood?”
The question deserves honesty. “I was. For a while. When success first came, it felt like vindication. Like proof I'dmade the right choice in becoming someone else. But lately...” I search for words to describe the emptiness that's been growing. “Lately it's hollow. Like I'm going through motions because I don't know what else to do.”
Our faces are close now, bodies angled toward each other in the small space. I'm aware of his breath, warm against my cheek. Of his hand, resting on my shoulder. Of how right this is—how easily I slip into this version of myself when he's nearby. The tent feels smaller, the air thick with something more than the storm's electricity.
His eyes linger on my mouth before meeting mine again, a silent question in them. I shift, and something firm nudges my thigh. A smile tugs at my lips—last night’s awkward moment flickering back.
“Is that the flashlight again?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
His cough sounds like a suppressed laugh. “Not this time.”
The admission hangs between us, honest and unembellished. No Hollywood games, no calculated moves. Just raw attraction, plain and simple between us.
I lean forward, closing the distance, my hand finding the nape of his neck. When our lips meet, it's not hesitant or questioning. I'm taking what I want, kissing him with a hunger that surprises us both. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer as I deepen the kiss, my fingers threading through his hair.
Everything falls away—the storm, the cameras, the separate worlds we inhabit. There is only this moment, this connection, pure and uncomplicated.
When we break apart, both breathless, I am dizzy with awareness. This wasn't in the script. Not for the show, not for my planned image rehabilitation. Not for the life I've constructed so meticulously.
“That was...” Finn begins.
“Yeah,” I agree, understanding.
He traces my cheekbone with his thumb, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. “This complicates things.”
“Everything about Alaska has been complicated,” I say, resting my forehead against his. “Why stop now?”
His amusement is something I sense rather than see in the darkness. “Fair point.”
Outside, the storm subsides, rain softening from violent drumming to gentle patter. Inside, something shifts and settles between us—an acknowledgment, a possibility neither of us expected to find here.
I reach for the hem of his flannel shirt, my fingers slipping beneath the fabric to trace the ridges of muscle across his abdomen. His breath hitches at my touch, and I feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with fame or image. This is raw, honest desire—no performance, no calculation.
His hands capture mine, stilling them against his chest. “Lena.” His voice carries something I don't recognize at first—restraint. “I don't want you to start something you might regret tomorrow.”
The words hit me like cold water.Regret. Tomorrow.The assumptions buried in his careful tone make my stomach clench. He thinks this is impulse. Adrenaline. The kind of mistake people make when they're scared and seeking comfort.
My hands go limp against his chest. The heat that has been building between us dissipates, leaving me exposed in ways that have nothing to do with the clothes we're still wearing. He's being noble. Chivalrous. Protecting me from myself.
And he's probably right.
I pull back, creating space between our bodies that feels arctic despite the sleeping bags’ warmth. The tent that had felt intimate now feels cramped, suffocating. I can't meet his eyes.
“You're right,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. “This is ... this isn't...”
“Hey.” His finger finds my chin, tilting my face toward his. “It's not that I don't want—” He stops, runs his hand through his hair. “You've been through hell. We both have. I won't take advantage of that.”
