I strip off the dirty base layers and step under the hot water. It feels incredible. I scrub the soot and the fear from my skin.
When I step out, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I feel human again. But underneath the clean skin, the muscle memory of the climb is still there.
I open the door to the room Mags made up for us.
Nash is there.
He's showered too. His hair is wet, darker than usual, and combed back. He's wearing clean jeans and a gray flannel shirt that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.
He looks up when I enter. His gaze sweeps over me, the towel, the damp hair, the bare shoulders, and the hunger in his eyes is immediate and raw.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey." I clutch the towel tighter. "Did you talk to Hank?"
"Yeah. He'll be at the dock tomorrow morning. Seven AM."
"Okay."
"So," Nash says, standing up. "This is it. The last night."
"The last night in Port Promise," I correct him. "Not the last night forever."
"Fairbanks is a long way away, Aris."
"It's a one-hour flight," I say, stepping toward him. "And I have tenure review in the fall. But … summer is coming. Fieldwork season."
"You planning on coming back?"
"I have a herd to track. I'm coming back next season with a full team to do the calving-ground work. And a very stubborn logistics expert I need to keep in line."
Nash's mouth curves, but his eyes don't follow. He steps closer, invading my space.
"You really think you can go back to that office and be happy?" he asks. "After the box canyon? After the river?"
"No," I admit. "I don't think I'll ever be the same. But that's the point, isn't it? I'm evolving."
I drop the towel.
Nash's breath hitches. He reaches out, his hands spanning my waist, pulling me against him.
"Then evolve with me," he whispers.
He kisses me. This kiss is nothing like the desperate, survival-driven one in the tent. It's slow and deliberate, a kiss trying to memorize the taste of my mouth, because it knows that tomorrow there will be a hundred and fifty miles between us.
He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed and lays me down.
"We have a door," I whisper.
"We have a lock," Nash says.
He looms over me, bracing his hands on the pillow. "No wolves tonight, Aris. No storms. Just us."
"Just us," I agree.
And as he lowers himself onto me, I push the emails and the dean and the grant to the back of my mind. I lock them away in a mental box marked Tomorrow.
Tonight, I am not a scientist. I am not a variable.
