Chapter 12 #2
Before I can unleash my Broadway-worthy scream, the shadow emerges from the tree line. In the firelight, I can make out the form of a large buck—taller than I expected, with an impressive rack of antlers that catches the moonlight.
“Holy—” I start.
“Don't move,” Finn interrupts quietly. “It's a deer, but it could bolt if startled. Those antlers aren't for decoration.”
The creature regards our camp with what seems like mild interest, its large eyes reflecting our fire as it surveys us. Its breath forms clouds in the cold air.
“Is it dangerous?” Elliott whispers, his clipboard clutched to his chest like armor.
“Not usually, but we don't want to spook it,” Finn replies, not taking his eyes off the animal.
The deer takes another step forward, its movements cautious yet graceful. It pauses at the edge of our camp, examining the remains of our dinner with apparent curiosity.
“It's after the food,” Carlos says, camera now raised to capture the moment.
I hold my breath as the animal lowers its head to sniff at our cooking area. It picks up something with its lips—maybe a piece of dropped jerky or a fragment of protein bar wrapper.
“Should we chase it away?” Dave asks, voice trembling.
“Just stay still,” Finn says firmly. “Let it move on naturally.”
For several agonizing minutes, the deer explores our camp with delicate steps. It nudges a pack with its nose, looks directly at Elliott, who visibly pales, and then, satisfied with its investigation, turns and bounds back into the forest with surprising speed and grace.
Collective breath releases around the camp .
“That was...” Elliott starts, then seems unable to find the right word.
“A deer,” Finn supplies helpfully, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Completely normal wildlife encounter. Nothing to panic about.”
“It was huge!” Dave exclaims. “Did you see the size of those antlers?”
“Is it gone for good?” I ask, still scanning the tree line nervously.
“Probably,” Finn says. “Just passing through. The flood likely disrupted its normal routes.”
Elliott's producer instincts kick in despite his lingering fear. “Did we get that on camera? That's gold footage! The celebrity, the wilderness expert, the dangerous wildlife encounter!”
Carlos nods, lowering his equipment. “Got it all. Great composition with the firelight silhouetting the deer.”
I catch Finn's eye and see the subtle eye-roll he can't quite suppress. In the space of five minutes, we've transitioned from potential mortal danger to production opportunity. Elliott's resilience would be admirable if it weren't so annoying.
“Everyone back to sleep,” Finn announces. “We have an early start tomorrow. New route to scout.”
Reluctantly, the crew disperses to their respective tents, excitement gradually giving way to exhaustion. Elliott lingers, glancing between Finn and me with undisguised curiosity.
“You two settling in okay? I could rearrange the assignments if there's a problem?—”
“We're fine,” I cut him off before he can make the situation more awkward. “This works.”
Elliott's smile is too knowing. “Of course it does. Sleep well, you two.”
As we crawl back into our tent, the previous moment of intimacy feels both distant and painfully present. Finn zips the door closed, sealing us once again in our private bubble of darkness.
I settle onto my side of our makeshift bed, acutely aware of every movement, every breath. The small tube of sunscreen presses against my hip where I tucked it into my pocket—a physical reminder of the spontaneous kiss that now hangs unaddressed between us.
“Sorry about that,” Finn says, his voice low as he arranges his portion of the blanket. “Deer encounters are common this time of year.”
“Is everything in Alaska trying to kill people, or does it only seem that way?” I ask, aiming for lightness despite the lingering tension.
He settles beside me. “It’s not out to get you. It’s simply … not on your side either.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be,” he says, and I’m surprised to hear actual conviction in his voice. “It means nothing out here is personal. No malice. No judgment. Only life doing what life does.”
I consider this perspective, so different from Hollywood's calculated ecosystem of favor and spite.
“I've spent my entire career in an industry where everything is personal.
Every critique, every rejection, every success—it's all filtered through this lens of who likes you, who's jealous, who's pulling strings.”
“Sounds exhausting,” he observes.
“It is.” I pull the blanket closer around my shoulders, suddenly feeling the cold again. “Maybe that's why I find this—” I gesture vaguely at the wilderness beyond our tent “—oddly refreshing. It's trying to kill me, but at least it's honest about it.”
His soft laugh warms the space between us. Without discussion, we gravitate back toward our earlier position, my back against his chest, his arm around my waist. This time, the arrangement feels less like survival necessity and more like chosen comfort.
“About earlier,” I start, then falter. How do I explain an impulsive thank-you kiss that felt like something more?
“The deer?” he asks, though I'm certain he knows that's not what I mean.
“No,” I whisper. “Before that.”
His arm tightens slightly around my waist. “You don't need to explain.”
“I think I do,” I counter, gathering courage. “I kissed you.”
“I was there. I remember.”
“It wasn't ... I mean, I wasn't trying to...” The words tangle in my throat. I'm never at a loss for lines, but without a script, I'm floundering.
“Lena,” he says, his voice gentle in a way I've rarely heard from him. “It was a thank-you kiss. For rescuing your sunscreen from certain doom. I understand.”
But did he understand? Did I? It had started as gratitude, but in that moment when my lips touched his, something else had sparked—something unexpected and terrifying in its potential.
“Right,” I say finally. “A thank-you kiss.” The definition feels insufficient, but it's safer than the alternatives.
“Though as thank yous go,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, “it was very effective.”
My pulse quickens. “Was it?”
“Very.” His breath warms the back of my neck. “Much better than a handshake.”
A laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. “I'll keep that in mind for future expressions of gratitude.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the warmth between us building like a cocoon against the wilderness night. His heartbeat is steady against my back, his breathing gradually slowing toward sleep .
I should be exhausted, but my mind races. Everything is changing—not just this unexpected connection with Finn, but something deeper within me. The woman I've pretended to be for so long feels increasingly distant, like a character I once played rather than my true self.
As sleep claims me, my grandmother's voice drifts through my mind, whispering the words she repeated every summer when we'd gather herbs at dawn. Las raíces más profundas sobreviven cualquier tormenta. The deepest roots survive any storm.
For years I've been a tree without roots, bending to whatever direction Hollywood demanded.
But here, pressed against Finn's solid warmth, I feel something long-dormant stirring beneath the surface—not the polished Lena Kensington, but the wild, stubborn heart of Magdalena who knows the names of plants in three languages and remembers how to tie knots that hold against rushing water.
The woman who might be strong enough to finally stop running from herself.