I get the fire started, coaxing flames from the embers Finn banked last night, setting water to boil for coffee and oatmeal. The camp stirs, everyone moving with the stiffness of exhaustion and cold. Elliott is, predictably, the first one geared up, consulting his notes, his energy seemingly inexhaustible when it comes to the production. Behind me, I hear the zipper of our tent and turn to find Finn emerging, moving stiffly but purposefully toward the fire pit.
As I hand Finn a mug of steaming coffee, careful not to jostle his injured arm, Elliott strides over, clapping his hands together. “Alright team! The final push! Painted Peaks awaits! Scenery is epic, as promised. Let's pack up, I want to reach the main filming meadow by midday to catch the best light!”
Finn stiffens beside me, his jaw tightening, but he gives a curt nod. “Weather's clear. Trail's straightforward from here, mostly alpine meadow, gentle climb. We can make good time.” He avoids my eyes, shifting back into guide mode, burying the pain I know is still there.
Breakfast is quick, fueled by anticipation and Elliott's relentless enthusiasm. I watch Finn as we break camp, noting the way he moves, the subtle bracing of his injured side when he lifts his pack. He looks at me and gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. I bite back my concern, respecting his pride for now, though the worry stays curled tight in my stomach.
The hike from the base camp meadow toward the specificfilming location Elliott has chosen is, as Finn predicted, less strenuous than the previous day's climb. We traverse high alpine meadows carpeted with resilient wildflowers, navigate around small, jewel-like glacial lakes reflecting the towering peaks, and cross patches of lingering snow. The air is thin, demanding effort with each breath, but the landscape is awe-inspiring. Jagged granite summits pierce the impossibly blue sky, glaciers cling to shadowed slopes, and the silence is broken only by the wind and the crunch of our boots.
Elliott is in his element, directing Carlos and the other cameramen. “Get Lena walking toward that peak! Majestic! Frame her against the glacier! Show the solitude, the triumph!”
I play along, walking where he points, looking thoughtfully at vistas, using Finn's compass now and then for effect. But my focus keeps drifting back to Finn. He walks point, setting a steady pace, his stride even, but I perceive the effort it costs him. I see the lines of pain etched around his eyes when he thinks no one is watching, the way his breathing is a fraction too shallow.
We reach the designated filming location—a spectacular high meadow nestled directly beneath the most dramatic cluster of peaks—before noon. It's undeniably perfect for filming. A small, clear stream meanders through it, wildflowers riot in patches of sun, and the backdrop is a breathtaking panorama of rock, snow, and sky. The crew lets out collective sighs of relief and awe.
“This is it,” Elliott declares with triumph, dropping his pack. “Worth the climb. Okay, people, let's get base camp set up. We'll spend the next few days here, getting those key transformation shots for Lena, capturing the majesty, the solitude...”
I freeze, Elliott’s casual words hitting like an icy wind. A few days? Up here? Like this?
My eyes snap to Finn, dread coiling low and sharp in my gut. He’s pale beneath his tan, that muscle in his jaw ticking again. He looks spent—like he’s running on nothing but grit and stubbornness. Staying isn’t an option. Not if I want the man I … the man I care about … to make it off this mountain alive.
Before I can voice my protest, Finn grabs my arm, his grip surprisingly strong despite his injury. “Lena. A word. In private.” His voice is low, urgent, stopping the angry response before it could leave my lips. He pulls me away from the group, behind a cluster of large boulders that offers minimal privacy but shields us from view, though I'm aware of Carlos's camera panning in our direction.
“What is it?” I ask, concern sharpening my tone as I see the desperation in his eyes.
“Don't fight him on this,” Finn says, his voice barely a whisper, strained with pain and something else … fear? “Don't argue about leaving.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at him. “Finn, you're hurt! You need to get down, consult a doctor. Staying up here for 'a few days' is insane!”
“I know my body, Mags. I can manage.” He grips my arms tighter, his eyes pleading. “But I need this job. I need the payment from this production.”
“We talked about this,” I begin, confused. “The lodge?—”
“It's more than being behind,” he interrupts, words tumbling out. “That damn contract ... if I don't finish this, if I'm the reason we cut it short ... they could take everything. The whole payment.” His voice cracked. “Everything. I lose the lodge, Mags. Everything my mother...” He trails off, unable to finish, the raw vulnerability stark on his face.
The depth of his desperation hits me. It's not pride, it's raw fear—losing his home, his legacy. My heart aches for him. From where I stand, the fix seems soeasy.
“Finn, listen to me,” I say gently, covering his hand on my arm with mine. “The money doesn't matter. Forget the contract, forget Elliott. Your health is what's important. If it's about the lodge payments, I can help. I have money, more than enough. I can give you whatever you need to?—”
He recoils as if I'd slapped him, pulling his arm away. The sudden absence of his touch feels like ice water in my veins. The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a glacial coldness that chills me to the bone. Hurt flashes across his face, masked by anger, and my stomach drops. What just happened?
“Give me?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low, laced with wounded pride. “You think this is about needing a handout from you? From Lena Kensington?”
The words hit like physical blows. Handout? That's not—I was trying to help. My chest tightens, breath catching. “No! That's not what I meant!” I stammer, panic rising as I realize how badly I've misstepped. “I meant?—”
“I know what you meant,” he cuts me off, his voice flat, devoid of the connection we shared over the last couple of days. Each word lands like a door slamming shut. “You think you can swoop in with your Hollywood money and fix everything. Solve my problems like I'm some charity case you picked up in the backcountry.”
Charity case. The phrase slices through me, sharp and merciless. Is that what he thinks? That our night together meant nothing? That I'm some entitled actress playing savior? My throat burns with unshed tears, the ache spreading through my chest like cracks in ice.
“Finn, please, that's not fair?—”
“Isn't it?” He takes a step back, putting physical distance between us, and the space feels like a chasm. “You think because we ... because the cave happened...” He spits the words out as if “cave happened’ was an unfortunate accident, a regrettable lapse in judgment.
The dismissal hits me like a punch to the gut. When he called me Mags, when he looked at me like I was everything, when I felt more real than I have in years—reduced to nothing. My vision blurs, the mountain peaks swimming behind tears I refuse to let fall.
“...that gives you the right to treat me like I can't handle my life? Like I need rescuing?” The muscle in his jaw jumps again. “I won't take money from family, Mags, you think I'd take it from you? I handle my debts. I don't need your pity or your money.”
Pity.The word fractures something inside me. All I wanted was to help him, to save what he loves most, and he's twisting it into pity. Making me the villain for caring. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists to stop the trembling.
