“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I muttered.
The mirror didn’t argue.
Back in the main room, I crouched beside my gear, unbuckling the straps and unpacking the equipment from the dry run. My hands moved automatically, checking zippers, testing buckles, keeping myself busy so my mind had less room to wander.
I set aside the stove, counted fuel containers, inspected the tent poles, and rolled the sleeping bag tighter. I did everything I’d do after any trip, even though part of me knew this wasn’t any trip.
Too many moments inside those twenty-four hours were still echoing.
Her voice by the lake:It feels different.
Her whisper last night:That’s the scariest part.
Her breath catching when she slipped.
Her blush when I brought her coffee.
Her eyes lifting when the first snowflake landed on her lashes.
My heart did that strange pull in my chest again.
I pushed the sleeping bag into its sack harder than necessary.
Calm down.
It was a dry run.
A stressful day.
A surreal one.
Anyone would feel rattled.
Anyone would want steadiness after facing a bear, wolves, and unexpected weather.
And I was simply the nearest steady thing.
That was all.
I repeated the thought a few times, waiting for it to feel true.
It didn’t.
I packed the last of the gear away and straightened, rolling my shoulders. My back cracked lightly, a reminder that sleep hadn’t done much for me last night. I exhaled and scrubbed my hand over the back of my neck again.
Sienna had asked me something yesterday.
Something I never answered.
Any guides you’ve worked closely with? Anyone you stayed in contact with?
I’d kept my reply simple.
No.
She probably thought it meant I didn’t trust people.
She wouldn’t be wrong.
