ARIS
We had donethe camp wash an hour before—Nash's field wipes, two each, set out on the gear crate without comment the same way he sets out two mugs of coffee. The routine is his. I have adopted it gratefully. The air in the tent is charged, and the repaired antenna we shoved to the corner has nothing to do with it. The man sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag does.
My hand is still on his face. The rough stubble of his jaw is against my palm. Heat radiates from his skin. His pulse is steady and heavy beneath my thumb.
We've spent two weeks dancing around this. Two weeks of "friends," of shared chores, of carefully averted eyes and accidental touches that felt like burns. We've survived storms, starving herds, wolf encounters, and near-drowning, and built a world out of snow and silence where the only laws are physics and survival.
And Nash Hollister is one of the variables I no longer pretend I can solve for.
"Aris," he says again, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my fingertips. "If we do this …"
"I know," I whisper. "If we do this, we can't go back."
"We can't undo it," he warns. His hazel eyes are dark, dilated, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. "I can't be your guide tomorrow if I'm your lover tonight. The lines get erased. The professional distance … it's gone."
"The lines were already erased," I say, trembling but sure. "They were erased when you pulled me out of the river. They were erased when you held me in the snow while I cried over a piece of aluminum."
I slide my hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, the strands soft against my fingers. "I don't want lines anymore, Nash. I'm tired of lines. I just want you."
Nash makes a sound, half groan, half surrender, and the last of his restraint snaps.
He moves for me like something in him just broke loose, his hands tangling in my hair as he pulls me to him. His mouth crashes onto mine, not gentle, not tentative, but starving. It's a kiss that tastes of relief and adrenaline, of weeks of suppressed hunger finally allowed to feed.
I gasp against his lips, opening to him, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a possession that makes my toes curl.
There's no grace in it at first. We're clumsy with urgency, bumping against the low ceiling of the tent, knocking over the spool of baling wire. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the heat of his body against mine and the way his hands are moving over me like he's trying to memorize my shape through the layers of wool and fleece.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, pressing his forehead against mine. His breath is ragged, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise, but I welcome the pressure. It feels like an anchor.
"God, Aris," he rasps. "I have wanted to do that since the moment you walked into the lodge in those city boots and looked at me like I was a bug."
I laugh, a breathless, choked sound. "I thought you were an arrogant jerk."
"I was," he admits, kissing my nose, my eyelids, my jaw. "I am. But right now I don't care about anything except this."
The words hit me harder than the kiss.
"Neither do I," I whisper back.
He pulls back slightly, his hands framing my face. The lantern light casts shadows across his features, catching the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity in his gaze. "Are you sure? You're vulnerable right now. You're scared, you're exhausted … I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and regret this."
"I have never been more sure of anything," I say. "Not the data. Not the grant. Just this."
I reach for the hem of his thermal shirt. "Take it off."
Nash doesn't hesitate. He pulls the shirt over his head, tossing it into the corner of the tent.
I stop for a second, just looking at him. I've seen him shirtless before, glimpses while changing, moments by the fire, but this is different. This is permission.
His chest is a map of his life, broad, defined by hard labor, and marked by the wilderness. A faded white line on his shoulder. A darker jagged mark on his ribs. Stories I don't yet know. He wears his survival on his skin, utterly different from the soft, polished men I date in Seattle.
I reach out, tracing the scar on his ribs with my fingertips. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact.
"You're beautiful," I whisper against his skin.
"I'm battered," he corrects, rough. "I've got too many miles on me."
"You have history," I say, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. I feel it knocking against my lips, quick and hard. "And you're about to freeze if you don't come here."
