"We go back to the lodge."
"And then I fly to Fairbanks to process the data."
"And then you fly to Fairbanks," I repeat.
The reality settles over us like a wet blanket. The mission is over. The "forced proximity" excuse is evaporating.
"What happens then?" she asks. She's looking at the fire, afraid to look at me. "When we're not fighting for survival everyten minutes. Does this …" She gestures between us. "Does this hold up when there's no adrenaline?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I've never done this without adrenaline."
I fold my hand around hers. Her fingers are rough, calloused, cold.
"But I know one thing," I say. "I'm not letting you go without a fight. I fought a wolf pack today. I can fight a logistics problem."
She looks at me then, exhausted and wry. "Logistics problem. Is that what I am?"
"You're the most complicated logistics problem I've ever had," I say. "City girl. Scientist. Stubborn as a mule. Terrible taste in trail mix."
"Hey."
"But," I say, pulling her hand to my lips, "I'm realizing I really like solving problems."
She leans her head on my shoulder. "I like solving problems too."
We sit there as the fire burns down to embers. The wolves are five miles away, feasting in the canyon. Waldo is somewhere in the rocks, free of his collar. And we are here, alive, together.
"Shelter?" I ask eventually.
"Shelter," she agrees.
We crawl inside the survival sack. There's no frantic urgency tonight, no desperate tearing of clothes. We strip down to base layers and climb into the zipped-together bag. We wrap our arms around each other.
It's not sexual. We're holding each other up, because if we let go, we might collapse.
"Goodnight, Nash," she whispers against my chest.
"Goodnight, Aris."
I hold her until her breathing evens out into sleep. I listen to the wind outside.
Tomorrow we go back to the real world. Tomorrow we deal with brothers and deans and flight schedules.
But tonight, I hold onto the woman who climbed a mountain with me, and I know that whatever happens next, the guy who lived alone at Misty Meadows is gone. He died on that scree slope.
The man lying here now has a partner. And he has absolutely no idea how to let her go.
Chapter Nineteen
ARIS
The return journeyis always shorter than the departure, not in miles but in memory.
When we first rode out, every bump in the trail was a new trauma, and every mile of snow-covered spruce felt like a step further away from sanity. I was gripping the safety handles of the sled like they were the only things keeping me tethered to the earth.
Now, on the ride back to Crystal Creek Lodge, I'm not holding the handles. I'm holding Nash.
My arms are wrapped around his waist, my gloved hands clasped against his stomach. I lean into the turns with him, anticipating the shifts in the terrain. My head rests against the back of his parka, the smell of woodsmoke and exhaust fumes strangely comforting.
