Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
LENA
Waking up beside Finn feels normal now, a dangerous sort of normal.
The first shock of sharing such close quarters has faded, replaced by a quiet intimacy that hums beneath the surface of every interaction.
I lie still in the pre-dawn chill, his steady breathing grounding me against the silence of the mountains.
The memory of that night in the cave—the way he called me Mags, the vulnerability in his eyes, the unspoken understanding that passed between us—settles within me.
I slip out of our shared sleeping bag arrangement with care, mindful of his injuries. He’s awake, his eyes finding mine in the dim light filtering through the tent fabric. There’s no awkwardness—only a quiet acknowledgment of our time together.
“Morning,” I whisper.
“Morning,” he says back, his voice still rough with sleep. He pushes himself up, and I see the wince he tries to hide as his ribs protest.
“Easy,” I caution, instinctively putting a hand on his good shoulder. “Let me get the fire going first.”
He doesn't argue, but nods, sinking back down with a sigh that sounds like relief. That small concession, the willingness to accept even that minor bit of help, feels like a victory.
Outside, the air is crystalline, biting.
The jagged peaks surrounding our meadow are painted rose-gold by the first rays of sun—an almost violent beauty.
It's breathtaking, a stark, aggressive grandeur that seems to mirror the tension simmering within our small group, a tension that, right now, for me, is solely focused on the injured man I left in our tent.
I get the fire started, coaxing flames from the embers Finn banked last night, setting water to boil for coffee and oatmeal.
The camp stirs, everyone moving with the stiffness of exhaustion and cold.
Elliott is, predictably, the first one geared up, consulting his notes, his energy seemingly inexhaustible when it comes to the production.
Behind me, I hear the zipper of our tent and turn to find Finn emerging, moving stiffly but purposefully toward the fire pit.
As I hand Finn a mug of steaming coffee, careful not to jostle his injured arm, Elliott strides over, clapping his hands together.
“Alright team! The final push! Painted Peaks awaits!
Scenery is epic, as promised. Let's pack up, I want to reach the main filming meadow by midday to catch the best light!”
Finn stiffens beside me, his jaw tightening, but he gives a curt nod. “Weather's clear. Trail's straightforward from here, mostly alpine meadow, gentle climb. We can make good time.” He avoids my eyes, shifting back into guide mode, burying the pain I know is still there.
Breakfast is quick, fueled by anticipation and Elliott's relentless enthusiasm.
I watch Finn as we break camp, noting the way he moves, the subtle bracing of his injured side when he lifts his pack.
He looks at me and gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
I bite back my concern, respecting his pride for now, though the worry stays curled tight in my stomach.
The hike from the base camp meadow toward the specific filming location Elliott has chosen is, as Finn predicted, less strenuous than the previous day's climb.
We traverse high alpine meadows carpeted with resilient wildflowers, navigate around small, jewel-like glacial lakes reflecting the towering peaks, and cross patches of lingering snow.
The air is thin, demanding effort with each breath, but the landscape is awe-inspiring.
Jagged granite summits pierce the impossibly blue sky, glaciers cling to shadowed slopes, and the silence is broken only by the wind and the crunch of our boots.
Elliott is in his element, directing Carlos and the other cameramen. “Get Lena walking toward that peak! Majestic! Frame her against the glacier! Show the solitude, the triumph!”
I play along, walking where he points, looking thoughtfully at vistas, using Finn's compass now and then for effect.
But my focus keeps drifting back to Finn.
He walks point, setting a steady pace, his stride even, but I perceive the effort it costs him.
I see the lines of pain etched around his eyes when he thinks no one is watching, the way his breathing is a fraction too shallow.
We reach the designated filming location—a spectacular high meadow nestled directly beneath the most dramatic cluster of peaks—before noon.
It's undeniably perfect for filming. A small, clear stream meanders through it, wildflowers riot in patches of sun, and the backdrop is a breathtaking panorama of rock, snow, and sky.
The crew lets out collective sighs of relief and awe.
“This is it,” Elliott declares with triumph, dropping his pack. “Worth the climb. Okay, people, let's get base camp set up. We'll spend the next few days here, getting those key transformation shots for Lena, capturing the majesty, the solitude...”
I freeze, Elliott’s casual words hitting like an icy wind. A few days? Up here? Like this ?
My eyes snap to Finn, dread coiling low and sharp in my gut.
He’s pale beneath his tan, that muscle in his jaw ticking again.
He looks spent—like he’s running on nothing but grit and stubbornness.
Staying isn’t an option. Not if I want the man I …
the man I care about … to make it off this mountain alive.
Before I can voice my protest, Finn grabs my arm, his grip surprisingly strong despite his injury.
“Lena. A word. In private.” His voice is low, urgent, stopping the angry response before it could leave my lips.
He pulls me away from the group, behind a cluster of large boulders that offers minimal privacy but shields us from view, though I'm aware of Carlos's camera panning in our direction.
“What is it?” I ask, concern sharpening my tone as I see the desperation in his eyes.
“Don't fight him on this,” Finn says, his voice barely a whisper, strained with pain and something else … fear? “Don't argue about leaving.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at him. “Finn, you're hurt! You need to get down, consult a doctor. Staying up here for 'a few days' is insane!”
“I know my body, Mags. I can manage.” He grips my arms tighter, his eyes pleading. “But I need this job. I need the payment from this production.”
“We talked about this,” I begin, confused. “The lodge?—”
“It's more than being behind,” he interrupts, words tumbling out.
“That damn contract ... if I don't finish this, if I'm the reason we cut it short ... they could take everything. The whole payment.” His voice cracked.
“Everything. I lose the lodge, Mags. Everything my mother...” He trails off, unable to finish, the raw vulnerability stark on his face.
The depth of his desperation hits me. It's not pride, it's raw fear—losing his home, his legacy. My heart aches for him. From where I stand, the fix seems so easy.
“Finn, listen to me,” I say gently, covering his hand on my arm with mine. “The money doesn't matter. Forget the contract, forget Elliott. Your health is what's important. If it's about the lodge payments, I can help. I have money, more than enough. I can give you whatever you need to?—”
He recoils as if I'd slapped him, pulling his arm away.
The sudden absence of his touch feels like ice water in my veins.
The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a glacial coldness that chills me to the bone.
Hurt flashes across his face, masked by anger, and my stomach drops. What just happened?
“Give me?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low, laced with wounded pride. “You think this is about needing a handout from you? From Lena Kensington?”
The words hit like physical blows. Handout? That's not—I was trying to help. My chest tightens, breath catching. “No! That's not what I meant!” I stammer, panic rising as I realize how badly I've misstepped. “I meant?—”
“I know what you meant,” he cuts me off, his voice flat, devoid of the connection we shared over the last couple of days.
Each word lands like a door slamming shut.
“You think you can swoop in with your Hollywood money and fix everything.
Solve my problems like I'm some charity case you picked up in the backcountry.”
Charity case. The phrase slices through me, sharp and merciless. Is that what he thinks? That our night together meant nothing? That I'm some entitled actress playing savior? My throat burns with unshed tears, the ache spreading through my chest like cracks in ice.
“Finn, please, that's not fair?—”
“Isn't it?” He takes a step back, putting physical distance between us, and the space feels like a chasm. “You think because we ... because the cave happened...” He spits the words out as if “cave happened’ was an unfortunate accident, a regrettable lapse in judgment .
The dismissal hits me like a punch to the gut. When he called me Mags, when he looked at me like I was everything, when I felt more real than I have in years—reduced to nothing. My vision blurs, the mountain peaks swimming behind tears I refuse to let fall.
“...that gives you the right to treat me like I can't handle my life? Like I need rescuing?” The muscle in his jaw jumps again. “I won't take money from family, Mags, you think I'd take it from you? I handle my debts. I don't need your pity or your money.”
Pity. The word fractures something inside me. All I wanted was to help him, to save what he loves most, and he's twisting it into pity. Making me the villain for caring. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists to stop the trembling.
“It's not pity!” My voice rises, frustration and hurt warring within me, threatening to spill over. “I care about you! I don't want to see you lose everything because of some stupid contract! I'm willing to risk my entire career telling Elliott we're leaving?—”
“Risk your career?” Finn scoffs, the sound harsh and dismissive, missing the weight of my words entirely.
The casual cruelty of it steals my breath.
“What does that mean? You lose a role. You get another one.
They make another movie. It's not real. Losing the lodge .
.. losing my home ... that's real. Don't compare your Hollywood drama to what's at stake here.”
His words land like stones thrown at glass.
My career, my world, everything I've fought for—dismissed as drama.
Not real. The life I've built, the sacrifices I've made, the battles I've won and lost—none of it matters to him.
I'm some actress playing dress-up in his real world.
The pain is so sharp I can barely breathe.
He doesn't understand me at all. After everything, after last night, I'm still Lena Kensington to him. A Hollywood fantasy. Not Mags. Never Mags.
“Then let me handle it my way,” he says, his voice cold as he turns back to the immediate problem. “Stay out of it. Play your part for Elliott's cameras for a few more days. Let me earn the money I need to save my home. Don't make this harder than it is.”
Play your part. The final hit. That's all I am to him—a performance.
His words land like blows, each one driving deeper into the hollow space where my heart used to be.
He's shutting me out, pushing me away, treating what happened between us like another problem to manage, a complication to his real worries. The vulnerability he’s shown me has vanished, replaced by that impenetrable wall of pride and misunderstanding.
The hurt crystallizes into something harder, colder. If that's what he wants—if I'm a Hollywood problem to be managed—then fine.
“Fine,” I say, my voice brittle, ice forming around the edges of the hurt, protecting what's left of me. “If that's what you want. Handle it yourself.”
I turn away, blinking back sudden, furious tears, and walk toward the main camp.
My steps stay measured, controlled. The spectacular beauty of Painted Peaks stretches in every direction—mocking, cold, indifferent.
He threw my help back in my face. Chose his pride over trust. Over us.
Over even trying to understand what I was offering.
The crew is setting up the tents in the meadow.
I see the small, two-person tent Finn and I had been sharing.
Ignoring it, I walk directly to where Carlos is laying out his gear near the tent he previously shared with Dave.
Fine. He wants to handle it himself. He wants to pretend last night meant nothing more than shared body heat.
Two can play at being cold and practical .
“Carlos,” I say, my voice deliberately loud, carrying across the suddenly quiet meadow. Several heads snap our way.
“Yeah, Lena?” He raises his head, surprised.
“Finn will take Dave's spot in this tent tonight,” I state, channeling every ice-queen role I've ever played to keep my expression unreadable, to remove the tremor from my voice. “Looks like you've got a roommate.”
Carlos shifts uneasily, glancing toward Finn as he approaches, then back to the tent. “Uh, no problem,” he says, studiously avoiding my face. He gestures toward the entrance. “Dave’s space was on the left.”
Finn nods curtly, drops his gear near the tent entrance, and walks away without a word.
“Good.” I walk to the tent Finn and I had been sharing, duck inside, and emerge moments later carrying his sleeping bag and pack. I stride over to the tent Carlos will now share with Finn and drop Finn's gear near the flap.
A collective gasp ripples through the watching crew members, followed by dead silence. I turn to face Finn, who has stopped a few yards away, watching me, his expression unreadable but tight. The rest of the crew stares, silent and wide-eyed.
“There,” I say, my voice clear and cold, projecting across the silence of the meadow. “You can handle things yourself. You won’t need my ‘medical monitoring’ tonight.”
The words hang there—too specific, too revealing—and I realize, too late, that no one else knew.
But I don’t stop to explain.
I turn on my heel and head for the tent originally assigned to us—my tent now. I duck inside and zip the flap closed with a rasp that feels final. Outside, the meadow is silent. Inside, the ache in my chest echoes loud enough to drown everything else.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps our worlds are too different.