Chapter 49 Clementine
Clementine
His words loop in my mind like a melody I can’t get out of my head.
It’s you. Not the mountain.
You.
I wanted to roll my eyes, tell him it was too easy, too neat.
He doesn’t get to vanish on me and then patch it up with an I love you.
But when I look at him, when I see the way his jaw softens and his whole body leans into the quiet, a different part of me hears that promise and wants to believe.
That’s the part that scares me the most. Because he did leave. He could do it again. Note or no note.
We move through the motions of setting up camp and making dinner.
He notices I’m cold and hands me his fleece without question; it guts me, because that’s exactly who he is when he’s not running—competent, careful, offering.
We don’t talk. The day has emptied us. When the sun drops, we crawl into the tent and slide into our sleeping bags.
Alec lies just far enough away to give me air, deliberate in his distance.
There’s a split in his right eyebrow, dried blood clinging to it.
His sleeves are pushed up, and I spot black and blue bruises along his tattoos.
His lips are chapped and bloody too, charred from the cold.
It makes my chest ache to know what happened on that glacier.
But he doesn’t complain or wipe away the blood, like a part of him thinks he deserves it.
For once, he isn’t pacing, isn’t solving. He is still. I don’t know how to be with that stillness.
The fleece smells like him. I twist it in my hands until the fabric is warm and say the thing I’ve been circling forever. “I don’t know how you expect me to believe a promise like ‘every day.’ Do you even get what that means?”
He props onto one elbow and looks at me in the low lantern light, and for a second, the man I’ve been learning to trust is fragile and very human.
“It means I stay,” he says. “That’s it. I stay.”
“You say it like you haven’t built your whole life around leaving.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again. “You’re right. Leaving is what I know. It’s what I’ve always done. But I don’t want to keep being that man with you.”
“When you were gone, I told myself a hundred stories. Why you left. Where you were. Every one of them hurt. And every single one ended with me not being enough.”
“You’re the only thing I’ve never doubted.
It’s me I don’t trust. I know how I move in the mountains.
I calculate wrong, the weather shifts, one anchor fails—and that’s it.
Game over. I can live with that risk for myself.
But loving you…” His throat works. “It felt like tying you into my rope system knowing damn well I might fall and drag you with me. What if I didn’t come home?
What if I left you carrying that weight? ”
“That’s not your call, Alec. You don’t get to untie me because you’re afraid of the fall.
Climbing with you means I know the risk too, and I still choose the rope or trail or whatever analogy you need to get it through that thick head of yours.
I don’t need you to promise you’ll never slip.
I just need to know you won’t cut the line when it gets hard. I need you to keep me harnessed in.”
He nods, scooting closer to me. “I’m scared now. More scared than I’ve ever been. And I’m still here. That’s the promise I can make.”
The air feels like the silence itself is listening.
“Then stay,” I tell him. “Not just for tonight. Not just for this race. If you’re mine, you stay. And if you want to climb, I’ll support you, but you can’t keep things from me.”
“I’m yours, baby.”
His hand rests between us, palm open—an offer.
I stare at it until my vision blurs, then lay mine inside his. His hand closes over mine, warm and rough. And that’s it. No grand gesture, no sweeping declaration. Just the two of us lying side by side.
I let myself picture a future with him. This feels like a beginning.
It feels like love.
We woke before the rest of camp, crawling out of our tents while the mountains were still purple with dawn.
The air bit cold, tin bowls clattering as we scarfed down oatmeal before packing our camp.
We were the first at the race line, our shadows long on the dirt.
When the gun cracked at seven, we lunged forward like the trail had been coiled under our feet, waiting to spring.
Euspuko’s east side is no one’s friend. Slate breaks loose with every step. Alec’s only a foot ahead, navy buff pulled high, calves flexing with each push, and I can’t stop the grin tugging at my face.
We rehearsed this for months, and we’re doing it.
Despite every challenge along the way, we’re doing it.
We’ve got about five miles to the top. A few hikers are behind us—I can hear their boots crunching—but we don’t glance back.
The trail thins into a knife edge, cliff dropping away on one side.
My pulse spikes, ears roaring, but his arm stretches back without looking, fingers brushing mine.
A tether. I step into it, match his pace, trust his body more than my own balance.
Alec rounds a corner; his pack scrapes against a jagged outcrop. The fabric tears with a sudden, harsh snap. A tin cup bursts free, clattering down the slope.
“Fuck.” He jerks sideways, trying to grab for it, the whole pack shifting wrong on his shoulders.
“I got it!” My knees crack hard against stone as I lunge, palms raw, fingers snagging the cup before it tips into the ravine. Adrenaline spikes, swift enough to taste. I shove the cup up toward him like it’s proof I can keep up. “There. Saved. We need to take care of this rip.”
He exhales through his teeth. “Leave it. We don’t have time.”
“We do if you don’t want your whole pack exploding.” I’m already crouching, shrugging off my bag. My breath is ragged, but I dig fast. “One minute, tops.”
“Clem—”
“Do you want to lose our stove next? Or our headlamp?” I pull the tiny sewing kit free, thread between my fingers, before he can argue again.
He groans, running a tight circle on the gravel, hands fisted at his hips. His chest heaves. He hates stopping, I can feel it vibrating off him. But he listens, and I get to work.
“Relax.” My fingers are already working, needle sliding through torn fabric. “I once sewed ribbons onto pointe shoes while a stage manager was literally shoving me toward the curtain.”
“You terrify me.”
“Good.” I laugh and bite the thread clean, knotting quickly before the mountain can eat more of our time. His shadow looms over me, jittering with impatience, but he doesn’t move.
“There.” I tuck the cup back inside and shove the pack at his chest.
“You really didn’t have to do that.”
“You cover me, I keep your gear from self-destructing. That’s the deal.”
“You’re right, we’re a team,” he agrees. “But next time, we’re using duct tape.”
“Hot pink duct tape. So it matches the stitches.”
His mouth tips up, and he shrugs on the pack. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”
“And indispensable.” I bump his shoulder with mine, then hitch my pack up, lungs already clawing for the next breath. “Now quit stalling. Zak’s hair is practically flagging us from the ridge.”
We fall back into step, shale grinding under our boots.
One more night in a tent. Four miles down tomorrow, and then the rappel.
We don’t talk, couldn’t if we tried. Still, I hear him in every movement. The scrape of his boot warns me where the slate’s about to betray us. His hand flicks quickly when the trail marker hides in shadow.
When I spot the next arrow first—green paint flashing in the rocks—I bark us uphill before we follow another team into nowhere. His nod is barely there, but it lands heavy, like someone pinning a medal straight through my chest.
The pack is mended. The stitches hold. And so do we.