“Or things you tried to forget?” His perception is unsettling.
“Maybe both.” I hand him another drink of water. “Hollywood doesn’t value wilderness skills and herbal remedies.”
“Their loss.” The simple certainty in his voice warms me more than the fire.
We sit in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crackling flames and the breeze outside our shelter. There’s an ease between us that I’ve rarely experienced with anyone—a lack of performance or expectation. We’re two people, all pretenses stripped away by everything we’d been through.
“The lodge is in trouble,” Finn says abruptly, breaking the quiet. The admission seems to cost him, his expression tightening with what I recognize as pride.
I glance at him, keeping my voice soft. “You said it nearly bankrupted you.”
He nods, eyes on the fire. “You already know the gist. Avalanche, windstorm. The repairs wiped me out. I’m still digging out from it.”
I glance at him, struck by how much he’s holding together with sheer will. “And you built it yourself.”
“Every board, every nail.” His uninjured hand makes a sweeping gesture. “My parents gave me the land, but Crystal Creek Lodge is mine. My dream. My responsibility.” The possessive note in his voice tells me everything about what this place means to him. This isn’t a business to Finn, it’s his creation, his legacy. The thought of losing it must be unbearable.
“Your family offered to help?” He looks surprised that I guessed.
“Nash did, this morning. Said my brothers would pitch in too. Even my father.”
“But you said no.”
“Didn’t say anything. Left it hanging.” He stares into the fire. “Taking their money feels like I failed.”
“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is accept help,” I say, my voice soft. “At least that’s what my grandmother always said when I was young and stubborn.”
“Did you listen?”
“Eventually.” I smile at the memory. “I didn’t always understand her then, but her words stuck. She used to say, ‘Child, love isn’t love if it doesn’t have hands and feet.’ Took me years to understand what she meant.”
Finn is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. “Your grandmother sounds wise.”
“She was.” I check his bandage again, pleased to see my makeshift butterfly strips holding. “And terrifying when cross. She would have loved these mountains.”
“And what about you?” Finn asks, his eyes intent on mine. “Do you love them too?”
The question feels simple but carries weight—more than asking about scenery or wilderness. There’s an invitation in it, a door opening to possibilities I hadn’t let myself consider.
“I do,” I answer, my voice honest. “More than I expected to.”
Something shifts in his expression, warming despite the exhaustion still etched into his features. I become aware of how close we are, the firelight painting gold across his face. For a moment, I forget we’re in a cave on a mountainside. Forget the expedition, the cameras, the show. Forget everything except the man before me and the raw, undeniable current between us.
Finn reaches out, his uninjured hand capturing mine. “Thank you.”
“For what? The medieval first aid?” I attempt humor to defuse the sudden intensity.
“For coming to find me.” His thumb traces small circles on my palm. “For knowing what to do when you did.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, voice softer than intended. “Let’s see if you survive my nursing.”
His smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’ve faced worse odds.”
A breeze slips into the shelter, curling around us with a whisper of cold. I shiver, not from the chill but from the current running between us. Finn notices, his hand tightening around mine.
“Still cold?” he asks, though his eyes tell me he knows better.
I shake my head, unable to look away from him. The air between us hums with tension, like the stillness before a lightning strike. Without conscious thought, I find myself moving closer. His hand releases mine, reaching up to brush a strandof hair from my face. The touch is gentle, reverent, sending a jolt straight to my core. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he must hear it, a wild drum against the quiet of the cave. “Lena,” he says—my name raw and real, like something sacred. And in that sound, in his eyes, I see an answered need, a question I'm suddenly desperate to explore. Screw the scripts, screw the roles. I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the last bit of space between us, my lips finding his in the firelight.
