Extra Close (A Man Obsessed #7)

1. Ellie

1

ELLIE

Holy shit, it’s cold.

I’m wrapped in so many layers, it’s a wonder I can move. Even with thick wool socks, a windproof parka, a fleece-lined turtleneck, and thermal layers beneath it all, I can still feel the Antarctic cold searching for ways in.

But the landscape around me is breathtaking. Seriously, it’s so beautiful, I could cry. Endless white stretches to meet a sky so intensely blue it seems like it can’t be real. The sunlight reflects off the pristine snow with blinding clarity, creating a world that feels both infinite and intimate.

It’s a world I’ve been dreaming of photographing for years—and a place that could change my whole life.

I pull my hood tighter and keep moving toward the station. Time’s ticking. I’ve got to check in and then head out to my shooting location. The research station stands prominently in the distance, a sprawling industrial complex painted bright orange against the white landscape, my destination after three connecting flights and weeks of intense preparation. My boots crunch rhythmically through the packed snow as I approach, each breath forming a cloud that instantly vanishes in the dry air.

I reach the main building and press the entry button with my gloved hand. A buzzer sounds, and I wait, stamping my feet against the cold.

The door swings open abruptly. A man stands in the doorway, his large frame blocking most of the entrance. His expression shifts from distraction to annoyance when he sees me. He stands well over six feet, with wide shoulders and a solid build that stuns me just as much as the starkness of the Antarctic. Dark stubble covers his jaw, framing a face that looks like it hasn’t smiled in months.

“Can I help you?” His deep voice is as unwelcoming as his expression.

Warm air rushes past him, the sudden temperature shift making my face tingle as feeling rushes back into my frozen cheeks. “I’m Ellie Sheridan. Wildlife photographer. I’m here to check in with the station manager before heading to my photography site.”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes a startling blue against his tan skin. They remind me of the sky outside, just as cold and clear.

“Commander Barrett’s office is down the main corridor,” he says, gesturing impatiently for me to enter. “Third door on the left after the lab.”

I take a step inside, and he immediately moves around me to grab the door. He pulls it shut with unnecessary force, the resulting gust of air ruffling my hood.

Before I can say anything else, he walks away, retreating into what looks like a break room.

I start down the corridor in the direction he indicated, my gear suddenly feeling twice as heavy. The station is a maze of identical hallways and labeled doors. After several minutes of walking, I realize I’ve missed a turn somewhere. The corridor I’m in dead-ends at a storage area.

Great.

I backtrack, trying to find my way, but the layout is more complex than I anticipated. Frustration builds as I check my watch. Every minute spent wandering these halls is a minute lost from my already tight timeline.

I swallow my pride and head back toward the break room.

The giant man from before is sitting at a long cafeteria-style table, a tablet propped up in front of him, a bowl of what looks like stew steaming beside it. His eyes flick up briefly, registering my return with undeniable annoyance.

“I got lost,” I say. “Would you mind showing me to Commander Barrett’s office? The station is bigger than I expected.”

He sets down his spoon with deliberate slowness. His silence stretches just long enough to make me uncomfortable, the quiet between us weighted with inconvenience.

“Follow me.” He stands, towering over the break room table.

As we walk down the corridor, he remains just as taciturn. But his cold demeanor only makes me want to persist, if only to prove I can’t be brushed off so easily.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I say, quickening my pace to keep up with his long strides.

“Dove Callahan.” His voice is gruff, eyes fixed straight ahead.

I’m sure I misheard. “I’m sorry—did you say Dove ?”

He gives me a sidelong glance that makes me wish I hadn’t asked. “Yes.”

Interesting. I smile, hoping that maybe it will coax a little warmth from him. “What do you do here at the station?”

“I’m a glaciologist.”

“That must be fascinating work.”

“It is.” He takes a sharp right turn. “When I’m allowed to focus on it.”

Jesus. Okay, message received. I fall silent, taking in the facility instead. The walls are lined with maps, safety protocols, and what looks like a rotating duty roster.

We reach a door marked Station Commander . Callahan knocks briskly.

“Enter,” calls a voice from inside.

Callahan pushes the door open but doesn’t step through. “Commander, a photographer is here to check in.”

A man in his fifties looks up from his desk, his face immediately warming with a smile. “Ah. Ms. Sheridan, welcome to Antarctica. Please come in.”

The contrast between the commander’s welcome and Callahan’s frigid reception is jarring. I turn to thank my reluctant guide, but he’s already pivoting away, his broad back retreating down the corridor without another word.

I watch him go, irritation bubbling inside me. I push the feeling aside and turn back to Commander Barrett.

“Thank you for having me, Commander.”

“Please, sit down,” he says, gesturing to a chair. “Let’s go over some safety protocols, and then you can get to work.”

The commander is clear about the rules—twice-daily radio check-ins, a strict two-week time limit due to the approaching weather system, and absolute adherence to safety protocols. I nod and assure him I understand the gravity of Antarctic conditions.

What I don’t mention is how much is riding on this assignment. Wildlife photography isn’t just my job. It’s my identity, my purpose. And as a woman in this field, I’ve spent years fighting to be taken seriously. The conservation magazine that sent me here didn’t even consider me for this assignment initially. They called their go-to photographer for extreme environments. When he broke his ankle two weeks before departure, they reluctantly turned to me as a replacement.

The penguin colony I’ve come here to document has only recently been discovered, and capturing them beneath the aurora australis would be career-defining. It could be the kind of photograph that wins awards. The kind that would finally silence all those who’ve dismissed my work as lacking “impact” or “gravitas”—words I’ve heard too many times from editors studying my portfolio with that subtle, dismissive nod.

In other words, it could change everything.

After my meeting with Commander Barrett, I spend the rest of the day setting up my small shelter a handful of miles from the research station. I’ve brought a specialized polar tent designed for Antarctic conditions—sturdy enough to withstand the brutal winds while providing a protected space for my equipment and supplies. A portable heater hums quietly in the corner, warming me against the bone-deep Antarctic cold.

My new routine quickly becomes familiar. Each morning, I wake before dawn, my breath visible in the dim light of my tent. I prepare my equipment meticulously, then hike the short distance to my photography blind near the penguin colony. Hour after hour, I document their behaviors—their waddling walks, their courtship rituals, the way they huddle together against the wind.

The penguins prove to be both captivating and frustrating subjects. Their most photogenic moments occur without warning, and end just as quickly, testing the limits of my reflexes. I spend entire days waiting for moments that last mere seconds.

Each evening, I return to my shelter exhausted but determined, reviewing hundreds of images as my little portable heater works overtime. My twice-daily check-ins with the station become brief, mechanical exchanges. Days blend together as the isolation of Antarctica wraps around me.

The shots I’ve taken of the penguins are good—great, even—but not extraordinary. Not yet. I need the aurora, that ethereal dance of light against the polar sky, to transform good images into unforgettable ones.

As the days pass, my concern builds. I track the aurora forecasts obsessively, but the phenomenon remains elusive, appearing only faintly on nights when the penguin colony is dormant. Time slips away, and with it, my confidence. After ten days, I begin to fear I might leave with nothing but technically proficient wildlife shots—the kind that get buried in magazine archives rather than featured on covers.

Then comes the morning I’m supposed to pack up and leave. Two weeks gone, and none of my shots have captured the true magic I came here to find. I sit in my shelter, staring at my equipment, frustration burning in my chest.

Out of habit, I check my aurora forecast app, not expecting much. My heart jumps. Strong aurora activity predicted tonight.

Tonight—when I’m supposed to be back at the station.

This could be it. The shot I’ve been waiting for, and it’s scheduled to appear just hours after I’m required to leave.

I grab the radio, my mind already made up.

“Research Station Alpha, this is Shelter One. Requesting permission to extend my stay one more night. Over.”

There’s a brief pause before the reply comes.

“Shelter One, this is Alpha. Request denied. Weather system approaching. ETA thirty-six hours. Commander wants all field personnel back well before then. Over.”

“The aurora forecast is strong for tonight. I can be back tomorrow morning well before the storm hits. Over.”

“Negative, Shelter One. Commander’s orders are clear. Pack up and return to base today. Over.”

“Can I speak with Commander Barrett? Over.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Shelter One, this is Commander Barrett. I understand your frustration, but safety protocols are non-negotiable. Return to base today. Over and out.”

I set the radio down, my jaw tight. I understand their caution—I really do. But the storm is still thirty-six hours away. Even if I stay the night, I’ll be back at the station with plenty of time to spare.

And this is my only chance.

I stare at my gear, then at my camera. I’ve come too far to leave without that shot. The penguins will be active tonight. The aurora will be visible. The math is simple.

I unpack my tripod and begin charging my batteries. Just one more night. One shot to change everything.

But I never consider that the storm might arrive earlier than predicted.