Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
LENA
Rain hammers against our tent, turning the thin fabric into a drum. The temperature drops with the sunset, chasing away the day's warmth and replacing it with a damp chill that settles deep in our bones. I wring water from my hair, watching droplets splash onto the tent floor.
“Some shelter,” I say, shivering as cold air finds its way under my collar.
Finn rummages through his pack, efficient even in our cramped quarters. “Better than nothing. This storm would've been miserable without the tents.”
The close confines of our shelter force an intimacy neither of us expected.
When we shared a tent before, exhaustion made it simpler—two bodies needing warmth in icy darkness.
But now, awake and aware, every shift is amplified.
Every accidental brush of skin, every shared breath, feels like a live wire in the small space.
The touch of his arm against mine as he unrolls his sleeping bag.
The subtle scent of pine and sweat clinging to his skin.
The way his eyes meet mine, then shift away like he’s not sure he’s allowed to linger .
“Here,” he says, offering me a small towel. “It's not much, but it's dry.”
Our fingers brush as I take it, a brief touch that shouldn't mean anything. Yet I find myself aware of the roughness of his hands, the small calluses earned through work. Real hands. Hands that build things, fix things, save people.
“Thanks.” I pat myself dry, suddenly conscious—again—of my bare face. Days on the trail have stripped away every trace of makeup, and though I’ve grown used to the feel of clean, unpainted skin, the self-awareness still flares up when I least expect it.
No foundation to blur imperfections. No contour carving out cheekbones. No mascara lifting my eyes. In L.A., a whole team manages my face—makeup artists, hairstylists, dermatologists with their injectable miracles. My contracts even forbid bare-faced photos.
I touch my cheek, skin chapped and a little windburned. I know what I must look like—blotchy, tired, hair frizzed from the rain. A PR disaster. And yet, sitting here, after everything we’ve faced, it feels ridiculous to care.
That realization isn’t new—but it still catches me off guard. Vulnerable. Free.
“You're shivering,” Finn observes, unfolding an emergency blanket. “Wet clothes in dropping temperatures is how hypothermia starts.”
“What’s your professional recommendation?” I ask, aiming for lightness despite my chattering teeth.
“Change into whatever dry clothes you have left. I’ll turn away.”
He moves to face the tent wall, giving me as much privacy as possible in the small space.
I dig through my pack, finding a thermal shirt and leggings that are mostly dry. Changing in the narrow tent takes the agility of a yoga instructor, but I manage—barely—knocking into the canvas more than once.
“You can turn around now,” I say when I’m decent.
Finn has changed too—into a dry flannel shirt that’s seen better days. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. A different kind of strength. Useful. Capable. Earned.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, though the chill hasn't left my bones. “Getting there.”
Outside, the wind picks up, driving rain against the tent in rhythmic waves. The temperature continues to drop as night deepens around us. Despite my dry clothes, I can't stop shivering. Finn sees it, of course. He notices everything.
“Your body temperature is still down,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “The sleeping bags are damp from the flood, but body heat is still the most efficient way to warm up.”
Last night's arrangement—my back against his chest, his arm around my waist—flashes through my mind.
The memory brings warmth that has nothing to do with temperature regulation.
“Practical survival,” I say, the words a shield I'm throwing up, mostly against myself.
“Don't get any ideas about this being a romantic wilderness moment.” Liar. My heart is doing the cha-cha.
He smiles. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
We arrange ourselves side by side, shoulders touching, the emergency blanket spread over both of us. It crinkles with every movement, sharp and cold against the rain’s steady beat.
“Better?” he asks again.
“Getting there.” The warmth radiating from his body already makes a difference. “So. Here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agrees.
Silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but like we were both waiting for something. Being this close, we'll have to talk eventually, yet neither of us starts. There's safety in silence—no revelations, no vulnerabilities exposed.
“Why Alaska?” I ask at last, curious. “When there's an entire world out there, why stay in one small corner of it?”
He considers the question with the seriousness he gives everything. “Hard to explain to someone who's spent their life chasing the next horizon. It's not about staying in one place—it's
about knowing a place deeply. Understanding its seasons, its moods. Belonging somewhere.”
“Not even in Hollywood? You seemed to fit with all that glitz.”
I laugh, the sound sharper than intended. “That's the ultimate pretend game. Everyone's playing a part, hoping no one notices the cracks.” I draw the blanket tighter around me. “I was better at the game than most.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Did you ever feel seen there?”
The question catches me off guard with its simplicity.
“Fame? Money? Neither is worth much when you're alone in a room at night, wondering if anyone would recognize you without the mask.”
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the tent for an instant before thunder crashes overhead. I flinch, moving closer to Finn. His arm slips around my shoulders, a gesture so natural it doesn't register as crossing a boundary.
“What about you?” I ask, settling against him. “Ever been married? Almost married? Tragic love story I should know about?”
Now it's his turn to laugh, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest to mine. “Nothing tragic. One serious relationship in college. Sara. We were together three years before she got a job offer in Seattle. She wanted me to leave Alaska, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. ”
“You chose Alaska over love?”
“I chose being true to myself over compromising what matters most. Sara would have been miserable here eventually, and I would have resented giving up my home. Sometimes love’s not enough if you’re not walking the same road.”
His words hit me with surprising wisdom. How many times have I compromised myself for what I thought was love? How many pieces of my identity have I sacrificed at the altar of approval?
“What about you?” Finn asks. “Are Hollywood romances as manufactured as the rest of it?”
I think about my dating history—selected relationships that benefited both our public images, coordinated by publicists and captured by conveniently placed paparazzi.
“Most of it,” I admit. “There's someone for every career stage.
The up-and-coming actor to create buzz. The established name to cement your status.
The strategic breakup for sympathy. It's all calculated.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I look at the tent ceiling, watching shadows dance across the canvas. “When you spend your whole life performing, you forget where the role ends, and you begin.”
Another crash of thunder, closer this time. The storm settles over us like a living thing, wild and unpredictable. I move closer to Finn, drawn to his steady presence.
“Cold?” he asks, voice low.
“A little,” I lie. The truth is more complicated. I'm drawn to his warmth, yes, but it's more than physical heat I'm seeking.
He adjusts the blanket, tucking it around us both. His arm remains around my shoulders, neither of us acknowledging this is no longer about survival.
“Can I ask you something personal?” he says after a while.
“More personal than sharing a tent in the wild? ”
His amusement is audible in his voice. “Fair point. Why did you bury Magdalena? You didn't only change your name—you erased everything she was.”
No one has ever asked me this. The question pierces through layers of constructed defenses. In the darkness, with rain isolating us from the rest of the world, truth feels safer than usual.
“I was nineteen,” I begin, the memory sharp despite the years.
“Fresh out of a community theater program with big dreams and a name no one could pronounce correctly.
After my hundredth audition rejection, one casting director finally told me the truth.
He said, 'You're talented, but with that name and that background, you'll only ever be cast as the maid or the gang member's girlfriend.’”
Finn's arm tightens around me. “Sounds like an ass.”
“He was,” I agree. “But he wasn't wrong. Hollywood has boxes, and I didn't fit in the ones that get leading roles. So, I created someone who would.”
“Lena Kensington.”
“Born in a small town in New England, daughter of academics who summered on the Cape. Prep school, a semester abroad in France for 'culture,' then straight to a prestigious drama program. Enough vague polish to be whoever they wanted.”
“And it worked.”
“It worked. Three months after the reinvention, I landed my first actual role. Six months later, a recurring part on a network show. Then the vampire series that made me famous.” I pause, remembering those early days of success. “The more Lena succeeded, the more Magdalena needed to stay buried.”
“And your family? Did they understand?” This question cuts, touching a wound I rarely examine.
“My mother encouraged it. She saw my transformation as practical—maybe even redemptive after the choices she'd made. My father had left by then anyway, so his opinion didn't matter.”
“And your grandmother? The one who taught you about plants?”
“She died before I became 'Lena.' Sometimes I think that’s a blessing. She wouldn’t have recognized who I turned into.”