Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Reid
“Alright,” he says, granite expression firmly in place. “Today’s challenge is overnight navigation. You’ll be deployed to different sectors across the Highlands. Each team gets coordinates, supplies, and a twenty-four-hour window to complete waypoint circuits.”
I glance at Sulla. He’s listening with that complete stillness that means he’s cataloging every detail.
“Teams Alpha through Delta will work the southern quadrants.” Mac’s pointer moves across the map. “Team Echo—” that’s us “—you’ll take the northwest sector. Most remote, most challenging terrain. Furthest from base camp.”
Of course we would be assigned to the hardest location.
“Camera crews will accompany each team. Standard protocol applies. Questions?”
Sienna raises her hand. “What if the weather turns?”
Mac’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you adapt. This is Scotland. Weather always turns.”
The briefing breaks up twenty minutes later. Sulla and I move toward the equipment staging area, and I’m already running logistics in my head. Northwest sector means rough terrain, higher elevation, more exposure. Storm systems move fast in the Highlands.
“Check your pack,” I tell him. “Make sure we have a full emergency kit.”
He’s already doing it, methodical and thorough. We’ve learned each other’s patterns over four weeks. I know he’ll verify every item twice. He knows I’ll triple-check the navigation equipment.
Our camera crew arrives while we’re gearing up. John, the camera operator, is younger than most of the crew—maybe late twenties, enthusiastic about his job. Briana handles sound, quieter but competent. They’ve been with us for the last three challenges.
“Ready for an adventure?” John asks, hoisting his camera.
“Always,” I say, because that’s what contestants say.
Sulla’s eyes meet mine briefly with a wry eyebrow flash. He’s probably thinking the same thing.
We load into the transport at 0830. The drive takes ninety minutes, winding through increasingly remote terrain. The landscape shifts from moorland to rocky hills, trees giving way to bare stone and heather. The sky is gray, heavy with clouds that seem to press down on the mountains.
“Looks like rain,” Briana observes from the front seat.
“Forecast says clearing by evening,” the driver replies.
I glance at Sulla. His expression says he doesn’t believe it either.
The drop point is as remote as promised, a dirt track ending at the base of a steep ridge. Mac’s voice crackles over the radio as we unload.
“Team Echo, your first waypoint is grid reference November-Whiskey-four-seven-three-two. Clock starts now. Good luck.”
John films us checking the map. I orient the compass, calculate bearing, factor in magnetic declination.
Sulla watches over my shoulder, close enough that I can smell him—soap and his distinct scent that I’ve mentally dubbed “gladiator.” Nearly four weeks of proximity have made me acutely aware of his presence.
“Northwest,” I say, pointing. “Four miles to the first waypoint, then we’ll reassess.”
“Lead on,” he says quietly.
We start hiking.
The terrain is brutal—steep climbs, loose scree, patches of bog that try to swallow our boots. John and Briana keep pace surprisingly well, though I notice John’s breathing getting heavier as we climb. Camera equipment isn’t light.
An hour in, the first drops of rain hit my face.
“So much for clearing by evening,” I mutter.
Sulla glances at the sky. “Storm’s moving faster than forecast.”
He’s right. Within twenty minutes, the drizzle becomes steady rain.
Within an hour, it’s a downpour. We pull on waterproofs, but rain streams down my face, dripping off my nose and chin.
My eyelashes clump together, forcing me to blink constantly just to see.
Water finds every gap in my waterproofs—trickling down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar, running down my spine.
My hands are numb inside my gloves. The cold seeps through layers, settling into my bones.
The wind drives the rain sideways, stinging my cheeks. I can taste it—clean and sharp and relentless. My boots squelch with every step, socks soaked through hours ago. The weight of wet clothes drags at my shoulders.
The radio crackles. Must be accidental activation, pack compression on the transmit button.
Mac’s voice, distorted by static, “All teams, be advised. Weather service has upgraded storm warning. Lightning risk increasing.”
I check my watch. We’re still three miles from the first waypoint. Behind me, I hear John stumble, catch himself. The camera wobbles.
“You okay?” I call back.
“Fine,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.
We push on. The rain intensifies. Thunder rumbles in the distance, growing closer. I count seconds between lightning and thunder—five miles, four miles, three miles. The storm is moving fast.
“Team Echo,” Mac’s voice crackles again, more urgent now. “Begin extraction protocols. Weather turning dangerous.”
I stop, turn to Sulla. Water streams down his face. His hair is plastered to his face, and his dark eyes are focused, calm.
“How far to the extraction point?” he asks.
I check the map. “Six miles back the way we came. Or—” I trace an alternate route “—four miles if we cut through the valley.”
“Valley will flood if this keeps up.”
“Yeah.” I key the radio. “Team Echo to base. Confirming extraction order.”
“Affirmative, Team Echo. All teams returning to base camp. You’re furthest out. What’s your ETA?”
I calculate quickly. Six miles in this weather, terrain like this, camera crew slowing us down. “Four hours minimum.”
Static, then, “Negative, Team Echo. Lightning risk too high. We’re pulling Team Delta now—they’re closest. You’ll need to shelter in place.”
My stomach drops. “Shelter in place? We’re in the middle of—”
“Emergency coordinates transmitting now. There’s a small empty cottage designed for things like this, they call them bothies, two miles north of your position. Proceed there and wait out the storm. We’ll extract you at first light tomorrow.”
I look at Sulla. He nods once.
“Copy that, base. Proceeding to bothy.”
I’m reorienting the compass when I notice John. He’s shivering—not the normal shivering of someone cold, but the deep, uncontrollable shaking that signals hypothermia. His lips have a bluish tinge.
“John,” I say sharply. “How long have you been this cold?”
“I’m fine,” he says, but the words slur slightly.
Briana moves to his side, alarm clear on her face. “Jesus, John. You should have said something.”
I key the radio. “Base, we have a situation. Camera operator showing signs of hypothermia. He needs immediate extraction.”
Long pause. Then Mac’s voice, grim, “We can get a chopper to you. But it’s small. Limited capacity in storm conditions.”
I understand immediately. “How many can it take?”
“One. Maybe two if we push safety margins.”
John needs medical attention now. And if Briana goes with him, that means—
“Send it,” I say. “Get John out. Briana should accompany him—protocol says don’t leave medical emergencies alone.”
“Affirmative. Chopper ETA twenty minutes. Find a clearing for pickup.”
We hustle to a flat area another quarter-mile up.
The rain is relentless now, lightning cracking across the sky every few seconds.
John is getting worse, his shivering turning to sluggish confusion.
Sulla moves to him without being asked — pulls John’s arm across his shoulders, takes his weight, and keeps him moving.
He says nothing. Just does it. John is too far gone to thank him.
I watch Sulla half-carry a man he barely knows across rough ground in a lightning storm and file that away somewhere.
The helicopter appears through the rain like a miracle—small, agile, struggling against wind gusts. It touches down just long enough for John and Briana to board. The pilot leans out, shouts over the rotor noise.
“You two are experienced, yeah?”
“Army, eight years,” I shout back.
“Right. Storm should pass by morning. You’ve got bothy coordinates.
” He tosses out a large waterproof pack.
It lands with a thud in the mud near my feet.
“Emergency supplies. Food, blankets, dry clothes, fire kit. Should have everything you need. Safest option is shelter in place. Stay put, stay warm, stay safe. We’ll extract you first light. ”
“Copy that.” I give him a thumbs up as he banks hard and disappears into the storm. Briana waves through the window—apologetic, worried. Then they’re gone, swallowed by the storm.
And we’re alone.
Completely alone.
No cameras. No crew. No witnesses.
Just us.
Sulla and I stand in the rain, staring at each other. The realization settles over me slowly, like the water soaking through my clothes.
Sulla grabs the pack. We don’t speak.
Almost four weeks we’ve been together. Almost four weeks of cameras documenting every moment, every look, every touch. Weeks of wanting things we couldn’t have because someone was always watching.
“We should move,” Sulla says, but his voice sounds different. Careful.
“Yeah.” I pull out my compass with numb fingers. “Bothy is two miles north.”
We hike in silence. The storm rages around us—thunder, lightning, rain so thick I can barely see ten feet ahead. But I’m hyperaware of Sulla beside me. The way he moves. The way he stays close enough to catch me if I slip but far enough to give me space.
The way everything has just changed.
The bothy appears through the rain as a dark mass first — just a solidity against the gray, smoke-colored and low. Then the stone walls resolve, then the slate roof, then the door. Intact. Closed. Real.
We stumble inside. It’s one room with a fireplace and a sleeping platform.
There is kindling and a stack of wood beside the hearth.
Sulla drops the pack just inside the door.
I push the door shut against the wind, and suddenly it’s quiet except for the rain battering the roof and our ragged breathing.
We stand here, dripping water onto the stone floor. I’m shaking from the cold, exhausted from the hike. But I’m acutely aware of the fact that this is the first time we’ve been alone.
Actually alone.
“We need to get warm,” Sulla says. His voice is even, practical. “Dry clothes first.”
Right. Military training kicks in. Hypothermia prevention. I move to the supplies, pull out dry base layers.
“I’ll change here,” I say. “You take that side.”
We turn away from each other, same practiced routine we’ve done dozens of times in the tent. But it feels different now. I strip off wet layers, pull on dry thermals, and I’m hyperconscious that he’s doing the same thing ten feet away.
That we’re alone.
I finish dressing, turn back. Sulla is crouched by the fireplace, arranging kindling with the same methodical care he applies to everything.
His hands are steady despite the cold. He’s changed into dry thermals—dark gray, fitted.
I can see the breadth of his shoulders, the way his wet salt and pepper hair curls slightly at his neck.
He grabs a match from his waterproof container and lights the dry kindling. Light flickers across his face, casting shadows across the stone walls. I move to the supplies and find emergency rations. We need fluid and calories.
After we both drink an entire bottle of water, we eat in silence, sitting on the bench near the fire.
The food is bland but hot. Outside, the storm is a living thing — rain hammering the slate, thunder rolling through the hills in waves, lightning throwing white light through the single window every few seconds.
In here, the fire pops and settles. Steam rises from our damp hair. The cold retreats one degree at a time.
Warmth, when it finally comes, feels dangerous. Like letting your guard down.
I finish eating and set down the empty package. Sulla does the same. The fire crackles. Rain drums on the roof. Neither of us speaks.
“We should try to sleep,” I finally say. “Long night ahead.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move. “We should.”
But neither of us is willing to be the first to move.
Weeks of body heat and almost-kisses and late-night conversations in the dark. It’s all sitting in this room with us now. I can feel his presence like a physical thing. Four weeks of falling for him while cameras documented every moment.
And now there are no cameras.
“Sulla—”
“Reid—”
We speak at the same time, stop at the same time. A small, awkward silence.
“You first,” I say.
He turns to look at me. Firelight catches in his dark eyes, and I see everything there—want and fear and hope and restraint.
“There are no cameras,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“We’re completely alone.”
“I know.”
The words hang between us. Thunder crashes outside, rattling the window. The storm is at its peak now, wild and violent. But inside this small stone shelter, everything is still.
Waiting.
I stand. He stands. We face each other across three feet of stone floor.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
“There are a hundred reasons this is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
Pause. My heart is pounding so hard he must hear it.
“But I don’t care anymore,” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “Neither do I.”
The space between us feels infinite and infinitesimal at once. Four weeks of wanting. Four weeks of restraint. And now nothing stopping us except our own fear.
I take a step forward.
He doesn’t move, but his expression opens.
One more step. I’m close enough to touch him now. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Reid,” he says, and my name has never sounded like that before. Like it’s scraped from a raw throat.
I reach up, put my hand on his chest. Feel his heart thundering under my palm.
“Yes,” I answer the question he didn’t ask.
And I kiss him.