Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
LENA
Darkness in Alaska feels alive—a breathing, pulsing thing that presses against our tent walls. No streetlights or city glow to dilute it. Pure, undiluted night. I lie next to Finn, acutely aware of every inch of space between us, listening to his measured breathing.
The tent Elliott assigned us—no doubt with a leering internal chuckle—barely fits two people.
With our sleeping bags still damp from the flood, we've spread them beneath us like makeshift, lumpy mattresses, huddling under scratchy emergency blankets that are clearly more 'emergency' than 'blanket' for actual warmth.
Finn's restlessness is palpable. I swear I could hear his thoughts churning.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” I whisper, breaking the silence. “I can practically hear you cataloging all the disasters that might strike next.”
“Force of habit,” he replies, his voice low in the darkness. “Someone has to prepare for the worst.”
“Mmm, and that someone is always you, isn't it?” I say, understanding rather than mocking. Men like Finn carry the weight of others' safety on their shoulders like it's nothing. Like it's expected.
I turn onto my side to face him, though I can barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. My body aches in places I didn't know could hurt, muscles protesting against another day of pushing limits.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me. “Tomorrow won't be easy.”
“None of the days have been easy,” I counter. “But I'm still here.”
“You are,” he acknowledges, something like admiration in his voice. “Most Hollywood types would have called for emergency evacuation after the first blister.”
I laugh, the sound filling our small shelter. “I'm made of tougher stuff than you thought.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, and the simple affirmation warms me more than it should.
The wind picks up suddenly, rattling the tent walls, and a fresh wave of cold air sweeps under the rain fly. An uncontrollable shiver wracks me.
“Cold?” Finn asks.
“Freezing,” I admit, drawing my knees closer to my chest, trying to preserve what little warmth I have.
He hesitates for a heartbeat. “Body heat helps. Basic survival.” Right.
Basic survival. Like this whole ridiculous, freezing night is another entry in his wilderness manual.
And I'm the shivering specimen. I consider his offer, weighing my rapidly dwindling professional boundaries against the very real possibility of turning into a Lena-cicle by morning.
Survival, and the thought of his solid warmth, wins.
I turn my back to him in silent invitation.
The mattress shifts as he moves closer. Then his chest presses against my back, his arm draping cautiously over my waist. Heat radiates from him, seeping through our layers of clothes and into my chilled skin .
“Better?” he asks, his voice strangely uncertain.
“Much,” I whisper, relaxing into the unexpected comfort of his body.
I've shared beds with costars during press tours, huddled with strangers in crowded subway cars, but nothing feels quite like this—Finn's solid presence against my back, his breath warming the nape of my neck.
His nearness doesn't feel intrusive, but protective. Safe.
My thoughts drift to our larger situation. “Do you think we should continue to Painted Peaks?” I ask after a companionable silence. “After everything that's happened, maybe we should head back to the lodge instead.”
I feel his chest expand as he considers his answer. “Turning back might be the safer option. But...”
“But our careers both depend on getting there,” I finish for him, voicing what we both know. “You need the money from this production. I need the reputation rehabilitation.”
“Yes,” he admits. “And there's another route we can take. Longer, but safer.”
“Then we push on,” I say with quiet determination. “We didn't come this far to give up now.”
I shift slightly, seeking a more comfortable position—and freeze when I feel something hard press against my thigh.
“Seriously?” I whisper, half-amused, half-embarrassed. The wilderness survival expert is still a man, after all.
His laugh rumbles through his chest against my back as he shifts to reach into his pocket. “Not what you think.” He pulls out something small and metal. “Just survival gear.”
“Of course,” I say, embarrassment washing through me. “What else would it be?”
He clicks it on, and a narrow beam of light cuts through the darkness, creating strange shadows on the tent ceiling. “Thought you might want proper lighting for once, instead of moonlight.”
I turn my head slightly. “What do you mean? ”
“I've seen you doing your skincare routine,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “No judgment. I thought you'd appreciate better lighting.”
Instead of embarrassment, I feel a strange relief. One less secret. He doesn't comment on how I look without it, which is almost more unsettling than if he'd made a crack. “Well, it doesn't matter now. I lost all my products in the flood—they weren’t in the bag I managed to save.”
The admission stings more than it should—those small bottles were talismans, my armor from that controlled Hollywood life.
“Not all of them,” Finn says, reaching toward the corner of the tent. He rummages briefly before pulling out a small, familiar tube. “Found this while we were salvaging gear. Thought it might be important to you.”
In the harsh beam of the flashlight, I recognize my tinted sunscreen with SPF 50—the one product he'd insisted I bring. Something catches in my throat at the small gesture.
“You saved this?” I ask, taking the tube from his hand like it's something precious.
“It’s important,” he says simply.
Gratitude, sharp and overwhelming, punches through my carefully constructed defenses.
He saved my sunscreen. It's ridiculous, and yet …
it means something. Before I can second-guess it, before the Lena Kensington filter kicks in, I turn fully in his arms, cup his face with both hands—his skin surprisingly rough against mine—and plant a quick, clumsy kiss on his lips.
It's over in a second—impulsive, chaste, nothing like the calculated kisses I've shared on camera.
I pull back, suddenly realizing what I've done. “Sorry, I?—”
“Don't apologize,” he whispers.
We're face to face now, my hands still framing his bearded cheeks.
His eyes reflect the small beam of light, studying me with an intensity that sets my pulse racing.
I can feel his heart beating against my chest, matching the rhythm of my own.
Time seems to stretch, thick with possibility.
My thumb brushes across his cheekbone, feeling the rough texture of several days' growth.
“Finn?”
“Yes?” His voice sounds rougher than before.
“I—” I start, unsure what I even want to say, but I'm interrupted by shouting outside.
“Movement in camp! Everyone up!”
The moment shatters. Finn is already reaching for his boots, training taking over. I move with similar urgency, tucking the rescued sunscreen into my pocket like a treasure.
“What is it?” I whisper, fear tightening my chest.
“Not sure,” he says, pulling on his jacket. “Stay here until I check.”
“Not a chance,” I counter, already lacing my boots. “We stick together.”
He looks like he wants to argue but seems to recognize the determination in my voice. “Fine. But stay behind me.”
As we prepare to exit the tent and face whatever new danger awaits, I catch his arm. “Finn, about what happened?—”
“Later,” he promises, his eyes meeting mine with unexpected warmth. “We'll figure it out later.”
I nod, but the brief kiss lingers between us like an unfinished sentence as we zip open the tent and step into the noise and confusion of our makeshift camp.
The moment we exit, disarray greets us. Headlamps swing wildly in the darkness, creating disorienting beams of light that cut through the night. Elliott, clad in a ridiculous red thermal onesie, stands in the center of camp, pointing frantically toward the tree line.
“Over there!” he shouts. “I saw something moving!”
The crew clusters together, brandishing whatever makeshift weapons they've found—a hiking pole, a frying pan, a tripod. Carlos looks absurd wielding his camera like a weapon, as if he plans to document whatever is about to eat us.
Finn's expression shifts to something I recognize—focused, alert, but not panicked. He scans the darkness methodically, one hand reaching back to position me behind him.
“Everyone calm down,” he commands, his voice cutting through the noise. “Elliott, what exactly did you see?”
“Something big,” Elliott says, his voice higher than normal. “Moving between the trees. Could be a bear.”
Dave, still recovering from his bee stings, clutches his sleeping bag around his shoulders like a cape. “I heard branches breaking. Something's definitely out there.”
Finn motions for silence, tilting his head to listen. I strain my ears too, trying to hear past the thundering of my heart. The forest around us seems to hold its breath.
Then I hear it—a low, huffing sound and the unmistakable crack of branches under heavy weight.
“Back away slowly,” Finn instructs, his voice calm but firm. “No sudden movements. Get behind the fire.”
The crew follows his directions, shuffling backward with surprising obedience. My ankle throbs as I step carefully, following Finn's lead without taking my eyes off the tree line.
A shadow moves between the trees, larger than a person and definitely more massive than a deer. My mind cycles through May's casual list of local predators—bears, wolves, lynx with “murder mittens.” None of those options seem appealing right now.
“What do we do?” I whisper to Finn. “Play dead? Climb a tree? Start singing show tunes to scare it away?”
“It depends on what it is,” he says back. “But making noise is good. Let it know we're here, so we don't surprise it. ”
“That I can do,” I say, gathering my courage. Years of vocal training for roles has to be good for something in the real world.