“Well,” Elliott clears his throat, recovering first, ever the producer sensing drama. “Seems the sleeping arrangements are settled.” He forces an expression that doesn't reach his eyes. “Adds another layer to the narrative, eh? Tension under the Peaks!”
I ignore him, walking over to Carlos's tent. “Sorry about this,” I mutter to Carlos.
“Uh, no problem, Finn,” Carlos says, looking anywhere but at me.
The rest of the afternoon crawls by in a haze of discomfort—both physical and otherwise. I busy myself with whatever tasks I can find, reinforcing the camp perimeter, double-checking the water source, rigging a better bear hang for what’s left of our food. Anything to stay in motion. Anything to stop myself from thinking.
Mags stays near her tent, shoulders tense, her attention fixed anywhere but me. When our paths inevitably cross, she looks right through me—like I’m part of the scenery. Another rock in the meadow. I want to reach for her, to make her see me, to tell her I’ve been a damn fool. But the frost in her expression stops me cold. That chill cuts deeper than the bruises or the throb in my ribs.
Dinner is a quiet, miserable affair around the fire.Elliott talks too loudly, trying to inject life into a conversation that refuses to take shape. Mags sits off to the side, nursing tea, hardly speaking. I eat out of habit, the food dry in my mouth, my attention locked on the woman sitting ten feet away and somehow impossibly out of reach. The firelight dances in her hair. Her jaw is set in that familiar, stubborn line. And when she thinks no one's looking, there's still hurt in her eyes—a flicker of something raw and wounded. My fault. The thought settles low and heavy, duller than the pain in my side, but harder to ignore.
That night, sharing the tent with Carlos is … awkward. He's a good kid, quiet and professional, but he's not Mags. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by the wind whistling outside and Carlos's occasional snore. Sleep evades me. My ribs throb. My arm aches. But worse is the hollowness in my chest, the replay of our argument behind the rocks.I won't take money from family, Mags. You think I'd take it from you?The words sound even harsher in memory. How could I have been so stupid? So blind? She was offering help and care, and I treated it like an insult. I'd let my fear of losing the lodge, my ingrained pride, make me cruel.
Morning brings no relief, only the prospect of another day pretending I'm fine while navigating the minefield of Elliott's filming demands and Mags's icy distance. Changing the bandage on my arm is a clumsy, painful process done hunched inside the tent. Carlos is already outside, probably giving me space after yesterday's public spectacle. The gash looks clean, her butterfly strips holding, but the surrounding skin is bruised and tender. My ribs feel like a moose has kicked them. Every deep breath is agony.
I force myself out, plastering on the stoic guide's face. Coffee helps. A little. I head toward the fire pit, bracing for the crew's reaction. Marco whistles a low, knowing tune under hisbreath as I pass. Yeah, the ribbing has started. Expected, but it doesn't make it easier.
Mags is up, talking with Carlos about camera angles for a sunrise shot. She gives me a brief, impersonal nod as I approach the fire, then turns back to Carlos. The easy camaraderie, the exchanged signals, the inside jokes—all gone. Replaced by a polite, professional wall I have no idea how to breach.
Elliott sidles up beside me as I pour myself a coffee. His voice pitches low. “Rough night, Hollister?” He smirks, enjoying the drama. “Must be tough getting kicked out by the leading lady. Anything juicy happen you'd like to share? Might be worth a little bonus for some exclusive insight into Ms. Kensington's 'transformation.'”
His offer, the slimy implication, turns my stomach. “Get lost, Elliott,” I say, my voice flat and cold. “You want insight? Film the mountains. They're more honest than anything you're trying to create.”
Elliott's smirk fades, replaced by a flicker of annoyance, but he backs off for now. He turns his attention back to Lena. “Okay, Lena! Let's get those contemplative wilderness moments! Walk along the stream! Gaze at the peaks! Look thoughtful! Look transformed!”
She does it flawlessly. Lena Kensington is back in control. She hits her marks, delivers the thoughtful expressions, and interacts with the landscape the way Elliott wants. She's giving him the performance that fits his story. The Mags who argued with me behind the rocks, who patched my arm with plants and fierce tenderness, is gone. Watching her slide back into that Hollywood persona hurts more than I expected. It's like watching her vanish.
I focus on the work—checking gear, monitoring the weather, keeping the camp secure. My interactions with Magsstay clipped and professional. Guide to client. Every polite exchange scrapes across something raw.
During a break, I spot her sitting alone by the stream, sketching in a small notebook she must have salvaged from her pack. It's the first time I've seen her do anything for herself on this trip. I walk over with a half-formed apology already on my lips, needing to ask about her drawing and somehow bridge this damn canyon between us. But she raises her head, her expression cool, guarded—the Lena Kensington mask locked down tight. Impenetrable. She doesn't want me near.
Message received.
I stop, the unspoken rejection a fresh twist in my gut. I turn away, the ache in my chest sharp enough to make me wince.
The next day follows the same pattern. Filming. Forced proximity. Polite distance. Elliott pushes for more shots of Lena “embracing the wild,” having her identify plants—the ones she's sure of, avoiding any uncertainty—track animal prints Carlos points out, and build a small, perfect fire for a solo shot. She does it all with professional ease, revealing glimpses of the knowledge she possesses, fitting it into Elliott's revised “return to roots” narrative. She never asks about my arm or ribs. Never meets my eye for more than a fleeting second. The warmth we shared in the cave might as well be a dream—something that belonged to a different lifetime.
Physically, I'm going downhill. Constant hiking, thin air, no real rest—it's wearing me down. The pain in my ribs grinds on. Every morning, when I change the bandage, the skin around the gash looks angrier, more inflamed. It's not infected. Not yet. But it's not healing either. I need rest. Medical care. Things I turned down out of pride and fear. Things Mags tried to warn me about.
On the third afternoon at Painted Peaks, Elliott decides it's time for a new story arc. “The mentor and the student,” hecalls it. “The culmination of the journey. Mutual respect.” He positions us near the cliff edge overlooking the mountains. “Finn, explain the geology. Lena, look impressed and ask insightful questions.”
Standing next to her—close enough that I can sense her warmth, even in the stiff wind—is torture. I stumble through glacial carving and tectonic uplift, my voice stiff. Mags asks the right questions, cool and detached. No trace of the woman who kissed me, argued with me, fell asleep in my arms.
“Okay, good, good,” Elliott says. “Now, a little closer. Perhaps Finn puts a hand on her shoulder? Guide her gaze to that far peak?”
I hesitate. Touching her now would be a violation. Like crossing a boundary I no longer have the right to approach.
“For the shot, Finn,” Elliott says.
I raise my good hand and place it lightly on her shoulder. She flinches—barely, but enough. Enough to land like a punch to the chest. I pull away at once.
“Something wrong?” Elliott frowns.
“Wind shifted,” I lie, turning from the camera. “Need to check the tents.” I walk away, ignoring Elliott's sigh, ignoring the lens trained on my back, ignoring the sudden sting behind my eyes. That flinch said it all. I didn't bruise her pride—I broke something between us. Something fragile I hadn't realized we'd built until it splintered in my hands.
That night, huddled in the tent with Carlos's quiet breathing beside me, the weight of it all settles hard. Losing the lodge would gut me. It holds my past, my family, my sweat and sacrifice. But losing Mags … losing the future we might've had—that's something worse.
I think about the expression in her eyes before I pulled her aside yesterday—that fierce determination. She was about to tell Elliott off, about to demand we leave, about to put my health before the filming, before her career. I recognized it,knew it. And I stopped her. Not to protect her from Elliott's threats, but to protect myself, to ensure I got paid. And how did I repay that fierce loyalty she was about to show? By mocking her world, rejecting her help, prioritizing my damn pride over her heart. Over us. The realization is a physical pain, sharper than what I feel in my ribs, deeper than the gash on my arm.
