I secure the yarrow leaves in place with the gauze as I wrap his arm. “She had names for everything that grew wild. Said the mountains speak in their own language—you just have to learn how to listen.”
I can see the toll today has taken on him—the punishing climb up Raven's Spine followed by the fall and injury, all after yesterday's long trek getting Dave to medical help. He looked like he was running on sheer will, his body screaming for rest.
“You need to rest,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re exhausted.”
“We should get back to camp,” he protests, his voice weak. “The others?—”
“Will be fine until morning. You can barely keep your eyes open.” I remove my outer jacket and fold it into a makeshift pillow. “Lie down before you fall down.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. He shifts, reaching for the canvas bedroll tied securely to the bottom of his pack. With a few movements, he unstraps it and spreads it across the flattest section of the cave floor, its wool lining creating a welcome barrier against the unforgiving stone. Then he eases himself down onto his uninjured side with a low groan that escapes despite his best efforts.
I place the folded jacket beneath his head, a pang going through me as I see how his body melts into the ground with relief. He’s hurting. More than he’s letting on.
“A short rest,” he says, eyes already closing.
“Of course,” I agree, knowing he’ll be out until morning once sleep claims him. I add more wood to our small fire, grateful Finn had thought clearly enough to get us to this cave before collapsing. Outside, darkness has claimed the mountains, wind whistling past our sheltered alcove.
Finn’s breathing has deepened, exhaustion pulling him under. I watch his face in the firelight, tension easing from his features as sleep takes hold. Hours pass. I keep vigil, adding wood to the fire now and then, checking Finn’s bandage, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His color improves with rest, the lines of exhaustion softening.
Sometime in the darkest hours, he stirs, eyes opening to find mine in the firelight. “How long was I out?” His voice is rough with sleep.
“A few hours.” I offer him water. “How’s the arm feeling?”
He flexes it. “Better. Your butterfly strips are holding well.”
“They should get you back to civilization.” I check the bandage, pleased to see no fresh blood has seeped through. The temperature has dropped as night deepens, the mountain air growing bitter with cold. Despite the fire, I find myself shivering. Finn notices, his expression tightening.
“You’re cold. Take your jacket back.”
“I’m fine. You need it more than I do right now.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then shifts position, making space beside him. “Come here.”
I hesitate, uncertain.
“Body heat,” he explains, his voice practical but his eyes saying something else. “Basic survival.”
I move to his side, settling next to him on the bedroll, mindful of his wounded arm.
He lifts his good arm, wrapping it around my shoulders and drawing me against his side. The warmth of his body is a shock after the chill, and I find myself pressing closer.
“Better?” His voice has dropped to a whisper that vibrates through me.
“Much.” The word feels small, barely touching the comfort of his solid presence. Yet here, in this cave, those neglected parts of myself have emerged when needed most.The woman who can identify healing plants and build fires. The woman who doesn't need rescuing.
“My agent would have a heart attack seeing me like this,” I say, attempting lightness. “She's spent years helping me craft my 'sophisticated cosmopolitan image.'”
“And how's that working for you?” Finn asks, cutting to the heart as usual.
I consider deflecting with humor, but something about the night and the way he’s looking at me demands honesty. “It's worked as planned,” I admit. “Got me the roles, the magazine covers, the brand endorsements.”
“But?”
“But it never quite fit right.” I poke at the fire, watching sparks rise. “Like someone else’s clothes that you can wear but never feel comfortable in.”
He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing this. “And out here?”
“Out here is different.” I meet his eyes. “I keep surprising myself with what I remember, what I know. Things I thought I’d forgotten.”
