THE CAMERAS CAUGHT US BARE

CHAPTER ONE STRIP FOR THE DROP

Grant Holloway had carried three men out of an avalanche, two women off a mountain in lightning, and one delirious billionaire through eighteen miles of Alaskan rain. None of it had prepared him for Cody Mercer in a white towel.

The preparation bay of the Unfiltered Wild production ship gleamed like an operating room. Light panels burned overhead. Cameras waited behind smoked glass. Beyond the open stern, the Pacific rolled black-blue beneath a bruised morning sky.

Cody stood on a yellow footprint painted on the deck, barefoot and bare-shouldered, one hand holding the towel low on his hips.

At thirty-three, he looked less polished than he did on television and more dangerous.

Sun had darkened his skin. New muscle crossed his back.

A pale scar curved beneath his left ribs, disappearing under terry cloth.

His smile was the same one Grant remembered from a hotel room three years earlier: slow, private, and capable of turning Grant's good judgment into smoke.

“Hello, Holloway.”

Grant stopped so abruptly that the producer behind him walked into his pack.

“You knew?” Grant asked.

“That my mystery partner was you?” Cody's gaze traveled over Grant's shoulders, chest, and thighs with insulting patience. “Not until thirty seconds ago.”

“And you're still smiling.”

“I smile when a situation becomes interesting.”

Three years of anger should have protected Grant. Instead his body remembered before his mind could object: Cody's mouth at midnight, Cody laughing into a pillow, the warmth left behind when Grant woke alone.

Executive producer Maren Vale stepped between them carrying two clipboards. “This reunion is better than anything casting promised me. Towels off, gentlemen.”

Grant looked toward the nearest lens. A red light blinked.

“You said survival experiment,” he said.

“Uncensored survival experiment,” Maren corrected. “Medical baseline, scar map, injury inventory. You both signed the same release.”

Grant had signed after a twelve-hour rescue shift and without asking who his partner would be. That mistake now stood six feet away wearing a towel and enjoying itself.

Cody let go first.

The towel fell around his ankles. He stepped out of it without flourish, which somehow made the act more provocative. There was no studio polish to hide behind now—only a climber's back, a narrow waist, strong legs, and complete comfort under the lights. His confidence reached Grant like heat.

“Your turn,” Cody said softly.

Grant stripped. He refused to hurry and refused to look away. Cool air crossed his skin. The camera nearest them rotated with a discreet mechanical hum.

Cody's smile faded. His eyes moved over the scars on Grant's side, the hair across his chest, the heavy strength in his thighs. What replaced the smile was raw enough to feel like a touch.

Grant remembered seeing that expression only once before.

They had met at a mountain-film benefit in Denver, where Cody had hosted the stage and Grant had accepted an award he did not want for a rescue he still dreamed about.

Cody had been surrounded by sponsors, athletes, and people who knew exactly where to stand when a photographer appeared.

Grant had dismissed him before they exchanged a word.

Then Cody found him alone on the service balcony.

“You looked like you were planning an escape route,” Cody had said.

“I was.”

“Fire stairs are through the kitchen. Loading dock door has a broken alarm.”

Grant had looked at him properly then. “How do you know?”

“I plan escape routes too.”

They spent an hour outside in formal clothes, talking about risk, rescue, and the peculiar loneliness of being watched by people who did not see you.

Cody knew the names of the two climbers Grant had lost in the avalanche.

Grant knew which of Cody's cheerful broadcasts had actually been filmed with a cracked rib. Neither asked how.

One drink became a walk. The walk became a hotel elevator. In the mirrored walls, Cody had taken Grant's hand and placed it against his waist with a question in his eyes.

Grant had answered before the doors opened.

Now, under production lights, that same unguarded desire moved across Cody's face. It was the only thing in the room more exposing than nakedness.

Maren handed Cody a waterproof marker. “Document every old injury. Your partner confirms tenderness and range of motion.”

“My partner,” Grant repeated.

“For thirty days.”

Cody uncapped the pen with his teeth. “Try not to sound so thrilled.”

He began at Grant's left shoulder. The marker was cold; Cody's fingers were not. He drew a small circle around a surgical scar, then set his palm to Grant's arm and guided it overhead. Professional. Precise. His thumb lingered at the edge of Grant's armpit for one unnecessary second.

“Pain?”

“No.”

“Here?” Cody traced the white line over Grant's ribs.

“No.”

“Your pulse says otherwise.”

“My pulse knows you're irritating.”

Cody crouched. The pen followed an old crampon cut down Grant's thigh. His breath warmed skin the overhead air had chilled. Grant fixed his gaze on the far wall and counted the bolts holding it together.

“Inner-thigh scar,” Cody told the camera. “Approximately four centimeters.”

“You can measure without touching it six times.”

“Quality control.”

When Cody rose, he did it slowly between Grant's legs, close enough that Grant could smell soap and salt on him. Their eyes met. Grant took the marker from his hand before he snapped it.

His turn began with the new scar under Cody's ribs.

“What happened?” Grant asked.

“Patagonia. Bad anchor, worse landing.”

“You climbed after that?”

“Finished the route.”

Grant pressed lightly around the injury, searching for weakness. Cody's abdomen tightened beneath his fingers. Grant moved to the ribs, the line of one hip, a healed cut near the spine. Every discovery dismantled another piece of the useless-celebrity story Grant had told himself.

“Turn around.”

Cody obeyed. Grant mapped a scar at his shoulder blade, then another high on the back of his thigh. Cody stood steady while Grant's knuckles grazed sensitive skin. The monitors around them recorded an acceleration in both heart rates.

Maren cleared her throat. “The medical team has enough.”

“Do they?” Cody asked.

Grant capped the marker against Cody's hip. “They do.”

Wardrobe consisted of two black survival trunks so small Grant assumed they were microphone covers.

“Those are not clothes,” he said.

“They meet three strategic objectives,” Maren replied. “Dry quickly, prevent chafing, and offend broadcast standards in twelve countries.”

Cody stepped into his and drew them up. The material clung to him with treacherous accuracy. He watched Grant attempt the same, his expression becoming openly delighted as Grant adjusted, adjusted again, and finally gave up pretending the garment could contain dignity.

“Problem?” Cody asked.

“Keep talking.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Grant took Cody's utility belt from a technician. Instead of handing it over, he stepped close and wrapped it around Cody's bare hips. He fed the strap through the buckle one inch at a time. Cody's breath caught when Grant pulled it snug.

“Too tight?” Grant murmured.

“Not remotely.”

The drop briefing lasted four minutes. The sea swallowed the rest.

They dove together from the stern, hit cold water, and surfaced into the teeth of the surf. The island rose ahead in green cliffs above a crescent of black sand. A crate bobbed fifty yards offshore, tethered to a flotation bag.

Grant set a hard diagonal toward it. Cody matched him stroke for stroke.

“Still think I need carrying?” Cody shouted between waves.

“Save your breath.”

“I remember what makes you lose yours.”

Grant would have answered if a breaker had not collapsed over them. He rolled beneath it, came up, and saw the empty water where Cody had been.

The next seconds narrowed to training. Grant filled his lungs and dove. White turbulence erased direction. Ten feet down, Cody twisted in a loop of the crate tether, one ankle caught and his hands fighting the rope.

Grant reached him, grabbed the back of his belt, and pulled their faces together. Cody's eyes were furious but clear. Grant drew his knife, sawed through the line, and kicked upward.

They surfaced inside another wave. Cody coughed once.

“On me,” Grant ordered.

Cody did not argue. He locked his legs around Grant's waist and one arm across his shoulders. Grant swam with the extra weight, towing them both through the last violent stretch. Cody's mouth stayed against his ear, breaths hot and ragged.

When Grant's knees struck bottom, they staggered onto the black beach and collapsed. The sand was sun-warmed despite the cloud cover. Grant rolled onto his back, lungs burning.

Cody came over him immediately. He straddled Grant's hips, shoved wet hair out of his eyes, and pressed two fingers to Grant's throat.

“I'm the one who got tangled,” he said. “Why are you breathing like that?”

“Because you climbed me like a tree.”

“You told me to get on you.”

“For rescue.”

“Of course.” Cody leaned closer, checking Grant's pupils. Their soaked trunks offered almost no barrier. “And this?”

Grant's hands closed around Cody's hips. “Delayed adrenaline.”

“Liar.”

The kiss was not a decision. It was impact.

Grant pulled Cody down. Cody caught himself on both palms, then abandoned the effort and kissed harder. Salt met heat. Anger sharpened everything: the scrape of stubble, the pressure of Cody's thighs, the hungry sound Grant had spent three years pretending he had forgotten.

A camera mounted above the supply crate rotated toward them.

Cody broke the kiss, glanced directly into the lens, and lowered his mouth to Grant's again.

That deliberate choice sobered Grant enough to turn his head.

“Still performing,” he said.

Cody went motionless. Hurt flashed so quickly Grant might have invented it.

“Still hiding,” Cody replied.

He stood and walked toward the crate.

Grant let him go because chasing would have required admitting the hurt in Cody's face mattered.

On the hotel morning, anger had arrived before fear.

Grant had called Cody once, then twice, then six times.

By noon, the number went to voicemail. By evening, an email from an entertainment lawyer asked whether Grant would consider appearing in a “boundary-breaking unscripted project” alongside Cody Mercer.

The pitch mentioned sexual chemistry no stranger should have known existed.

Grant had spent three years using that email as evidence.

The kiss on the beach had cracked the case without opening it. Cody had looked into the camera, yes—but he had looked hurt when Grant accused him. Not guilty. Hurt.

Grant hated ambiguity more than danger. Danger could be measured. Ambiguity asked him to trust.

Inside were two knives, two pairs of boots, one cooking pot, and one folded tarp. No fire steel. No rope. No clothes beyond what they wore.

“Generous,” Grant said.

“At least they gave us matching luggage.”

They carried the crate above the tide line and spent the afternoon securing water, scouting palms, and building the bones of a shelter.

Cody identified a vine that held potable water, then corrected Grant's choice of palm fronds with enough technical detail to be infuriatingly right.

By sunset, Grant had revised his assessment from useless to competent and disliked the change.

They also established rules.

No leaving camp alone. No entering water without the other man watching. Knives stayed on their bodies or in the same marked place beside the fire. One whistle meant stop, two meant return, three meant emergency. Grant proposed each rule. Cody improved three of them.

“If a camera operator asks us to repeat a dangerous action, we refuse,” Cody added.

“Agreed.”

“If production withholds medical care for drama, we leave.”

“Agreed.”

“If you kiss me again, you do not blame adrenaline.”

Grant drove a support pole into the sand. “Not a survival rule.”

“It concerns my survival.”

“Rejected.”

Cody knelt beside the shelter frame and tied off a crosspiece with an elegant constrictor knot. “Noted under cowardice.”

Grant tested the knot. It held perfectly.

The island was already rearranging the categories in his mind. Cody belonged under threat, temptation, unresolved injury, and—against all available evidence—partner.

Rain arrived after dark.

The unfinished roof leaked everywhere, forcing them under the tarp. It was too short for distance. Grant lay on his side; Cody fitted against him from chest to knee, one damp thigh sliding between Grant's.

The island breathed around them. Rain ticked over vinyl. Somewhere in the jungle, something screamed and received an answer.

Grant could feel every inhale Cody took.

“Move your leg,” he whispered.

“There is nowhere to move it.”

“Then stop moving it.”

Cody's mouth found the edge of Grant's ear. “The cameras already know you still want me.”

Grant tightened his hand around the tarp instead of Cody's hip.

“The cameras don't know anything.”

“No?” Cody pressed closer, slow enough to make denial impossible. “Then they're the only ones on this island who don’t.”