She gave a tiny huff, the smallest laugh. “My brain is doing that thing where it replays all the stupid things I said today.”
“You didn’t say anything stupid.”
“Lies,” she said, but there wasn’t heat behind it — just tired humor. “I practically told you we had to keep a dry hump schedule for guests.”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at the corner of my mouth. “Dry run.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I shifted slightly, folding my arm under my head. “It wasn’t a disaster.”
“It was,” she insisted, softer. “But thanks for pretending.”
Silence settled again, gentler this time.
The temperature dropped another few degrees. I felt it even through the tent's walls.
“Carson?” she said again, even quieter. “Today scared me more than I expected.”
“You handled it well.”
“But I didn’t handle the feelings well afterward.”
I hesitated. “What feelings?”
“The ones that show up when you think you’re completely in control, and then life sends a bear and a pack of wolves just to prove you’re not.”
I stared at the nylon ceiling. “That’s normal.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“For people who aren’t afraid to admit they feel things.”
She went silent for several seconds. I thought maybe she’d retreated behind those walls again.
I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But then she said, softer than anything she’d spoken all day:
“I don’t think I’ve been very good at letting myself feel anything lately.”
I swallowed. That hit too close.
“You don’t have to be good at it,” I said. “You just have to let yourself exist without pretending you’re invincible.”
“Did you just accuse me of pretending?” she asked, but her voice carried no defense, only self-awareness.
“I don’t think you need to pretend around me,” I said.
The breeze shifted outside. Snow slid from a branch in a soft thump.
Then she whispered, barely audible:
“That’s the scariest part.”
Something tightened in my chest, not fear or recognition but resonance.
Before I could speak again, she said, “Goodnight, Carson.”
