Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
LENA
Solitude is a shock after days of constant company.
The Forest Service cabin suddenly feels vast and empty, with only Carlos and me rattling around in it while the others are out there, facing who-knows-what on the trail.
I’ve spent the morning on the narrow bench, my foot propped on a folded sleeping bag, watching dust motes dance in the shafts of sunlight that stream through the cabin’s single window.
Carlos proves to be what Finn promised—unobtrusive.
He moves around the cabin, now and then filming when I change my willow compress or sip the bitter tea, but mostly he stays focused on capturing time-lapse footage of clouds rolling past the window.
Unlike Elliott, he never asks me to “look more pained” or “emphasize the struggle.” The silence between us is comfortable rather than awkward.
“Finn left instructions for lunch,” Carlos says around noon, the first full sentence he’s spoken all day.
He sets about heating water on the woodstove, adding packets from his pack with careful precision.
The resulting meal is ... technically edible.
Dehydrated vegetable-like substances and some kind of mystery meat that has me seriously re-evaluating every life choice that led me here.
I eat by rote, more out of obligation than hunger.
“Not as good as when Finn makes it,” I say without thinking.
Carlos nods. “He adds things. Plants from outside.”
I glance toward the window. Beyond the glass lies a world of green I’ve been trudging through for days, seeing but not truly looking. A world my grandmother understood—plants that healed, nourished, protected. Knowledge I buried, along with my real name.
“Has the swelling gone down?” Carlos asks.
I rotate my foot. The willow poultice has worked better than I expected. The purple has faded, and I can move it with only moderate discomfort. “It’s better,” I admit. “His plant medicine works.”
Carlos gives a knowing nod. “Finn knows things. Old things.”
His simple words land harder than I expect. Finn knows things—more than survival skills or backcountry shortcuts. He moves through the world with a quiet kind of certainty, like he’s reading a map I can’t see. Like he understands things I’ve never learned to name.
As afternoon bleeds into evening, every creak of the cabin door makes me startle, half-expecting the steady rhythm of his boots.
The silence that follows each time is a hollow thud in my chest. Missing him—actually missing that maddening, unexpectedly thoughtful mountain man—feels like stepping onto uneven ground I didn’t know was there.
Three days ago, he was the grumpy guide I had to tolerate. Now I catch myself wondering what he’d say about the clouds stacking over the ridge, or which impossible-to-pronounce plant he’d point out with that maddening confidence.
When Carlos hands me dinner—another foil-packed science experiment—it’s not the blandness that gets me. It’s what’s missing. The low hum of Finn’s voice, the dry commentary, the way he made everything—somehow—feel like a story worth telling.
The stories that came with each meal, making even trail food connected to this place.
Night falls, the temperature dropping with the sun.
Carlos banks the fire in the woodstove before retreating to his sleeping bag in the far corner.
The cabin settles into creaks and whispers.
I lie awake in the darkness, wondering where Finn is sleeping tonight.
If he’s looking at the same stars I can see through the small cabin window.
If he’s thought of me at all today. The idea that I want him to think of me sends a dangerous little thrill through me.
This isn’t in the script. Finn Hollister isn’t supposed to matter.
He’s a temporary guide through a temporary experience—a means to rehabilitate my image, nothing more.
And yet ... the memory of his hands gently wrapping my injury lingers.
The quiet confidence in his voice when he stood up to Elliott.
The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he almost smiles.
I pull his borrowed jacket tighter around me, breathing in the scent of pine and something uniquely him.
Sleep comes, and my dreams are filled with willows bending in the wind and strong hands guiding mine toward healing.
Morning arrives on a breeze of golden light and birdsong, the kind of scene that would look great on a postcard but forgets to mention the lack of indoor plumbing.
I wake more rested than I have in days. The pain still hums beneath the surface, but at least it isn’t screaming.
I manage the wobbly shuffle to the outhouse without waking Carlos, using the cabin wall like a patient dance partner.
He helped me the day before—bless him, and also never again—so the fact that I can pee without supervision is like a personal triumph. An unglamorous one, but I’ll take it .
Back inside, I remove the willow poultice, marveling at how much of the swelling has subsided. The herbs have drawn out most of the inflammation, leaving only a dull ache. The trip to the outhouse confirms what I suspected—it’s healing, though each step still sends a warning twinge up my leg.
Carlos stirs, checking his watch. “They should be back soon.”
I nod, self-conscious about my appearance. I haven’t seen a proper mirror in days, but there is grime on my skin and tangles in my hair. In Los Angeles, I wouldn’t have let anyone see me like this—especially not a man whose opinion shouldn’t matter but somehow does.
Using water from the rain barrel outside, I manage a makeshift sponge bath and change into my last clean shirt. I’m working a comb through the snarls in my hair when I hear voices outside.
The door swings open, and there he is—Finn, silhouetted against the morning light, his tall frame filling the doorway. Behind him, Elliott and the crew trudge up the path, looking more bedraggled than when they left.
“How’s the ankle?” Finn asks, his eyes finding mine.
“Better,” I say, surprised by the breathlessness in my voice. “Your willow remedy worked.”
Something in his expression alters—relief, maybe, or quiet satisfaction. In three long strides, he’s across the cabin, kneeling beside me. His hands are gentle as he inspects the injury, his touch sending a surprising jolt across my skin.
“Good,” he says, his fingers warm where they touch. “You followed instructions.”
“I can be taught,” I reply, aiming for light humor but hearing something else entirely in my voice.
His eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, everything else disappears—the cabin, Carlos packing his equipment, the sound of the crew approaching.
There is only Finn, his calloused hand cupping my heel, his eyes— God, those eyes —seeing straight through the Lena Kensington disguise to someone I’d almost forgotten existed.
Then Elliott bursts through the door, breaking the moment with his perpetual energy and clipboard. “Perfect timing!” he exclaims. “How’s our star patient? Ready for a triumphant return to the wild? We’re thinking a ‘rising from adversity’ narrative for today’s shoot.”
Finn stands, putting space between us that is both necessary and disappointing. “She can walk, but we take it slow,” he says, leaving no room for debate. “And we change the route. No steep descents.”
“But—” Elliott begins.
“Those are the conditions,” Finn cuts him off. “Or we stay another day.”
I watch the exchange with a newfound appreciation for Finn’s authority.
He hasn’t asked my opinion, which would typically infuriate me, but somehow, I don’t mind.
He’s protecting me—not because I’m a celebrity client, but because he cares about my wellbeing.
A surprising warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the morning sun now streaming through the window.
“We leave in thirty,” Finn announces to the room at large. “Pack up. Eat something.”
As the crew bustles around gathering their gear, Finn returns to my side, holding out a familiar silver-wrapped bar. “Breakfast,” he says. “Then we’ll see how that ankle handles walking.”
Our fingers brush as I take the offering, and I imagine the way his linger for a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you,” I say, my voice low. “Not only for this. For yesterday. For making Elliott let me stay.”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “He’s not the boss out here. ”
“No,” I agree, locking eyes with him. “He’s not.”
The truth settles between us—out here, without Hollywood gloss or city comforts, the rules are different. The hierarchy is real. And Finn Hollister, with his competence and unwavering principles, outranks any clipboard-wielding producer by miles.
As I prepare to rejoin the expedition, lacing my boot over my tender ankle, I realize something has shifted during our day apart.
The script I’ve been following—the one where I endure this adventure as a necessary career move—no longer feels right.
I’m writing new pages now, and I have no idea where the story might lead.