But something shifted, a softening and a warmth that wasn’t from the flames.
“So,” I said casually. “Any… other guides you’ve worked closely with? Anyone you stayed in contact with afterward?”
I hated that I asked it.
I hated the tightening sensation in my chest that anticipated the answer.
Carson shook his head slowly, eyes on the fire. “I keep to myself.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
His entire body stilled.
I realized instantly I’d hit something personal, and he didn’t look up.
His lack of reaction told me more than an answer would have.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “That was… too personal.”
He shook his head slightly. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
Something heavy flickered behind his eyes.
I felt my own walls shoot back up.
It was instinct. Protect myself before I cared too much. Before I asked too much. Before this soft, crackling moment between us turned into something that mattered.
He cleared his throat and handed me a food pouch. “Eat.”
“Bossy,” I muttered.
“Efficient.”
Fair enough.
We sat near the fire, eating in quiet. The flames danced gold and orange, throwing shadows across Carson’s face. It made him look different. More open. More human. Less guarded.
Which was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“So,” he said after a few minutes. “Tomorrow we test the ridge traverse.”
“Yep,” I said. “It’s slippery as hell.”
“Good. That means the guests will love it.”
I barked a laugh. “You seem to forget they’re newlyweds from Chicago.”
“They’ll be fine.”
