He sets a killer pace. Hours later, the sun is dropping when we stop for a break.
The woods have changed again. Pines give way to hardwoods. The ground is steeper.
“Here,” Diego says.
He points to a depression under the root system of a massive fallen oak. It’s a natural shelter, protected from the wind, hidden from above.
“We camp here?”
“We hold here. No fire. Too risky.”
He drops his pack. Starts clearing debris from the hollow. He moves dead leaves, checks for snakes, and lines the ground with pine boughs.
It’s nesting. Primal and efficient.
“It’s going to freeze tonight,” I say. The temperature is already plummeting.
“Yes.”
He pulls out a silver emergency blanket. “We share this.”
I stare at the flimsy foil sheet. “That’s it?”
“Body heat is the only heat source we have.” He looks at me. His expression is guarded. Careful. “It’s tactical. Not romantic.”
“I know.”
“If we sleep apart, we freeze. If we sleep together, we maintain core temperature.”
“I said I know.”
He spreads the blanket over the pine boughs. “Get in the back. Against the wood. I take the outside.”
I crawl into the small space. It smells of earth and decay. I want to curl up, pull my knees to my chest, but there’s no room for that. For him. So I stretch out on my side.
Diego slides in beside me.
The space is tiny. There is no way to avoid contact.
He lies on his side, facing away from me, his back to my chest. He positions his body to block the wind from the opening.
“Close,” he says.
I scoot forward until my chest presses against his back. Do I wrap my arm around his waist? No. That feels too intimate. I tuck my hands between us.
He’s rigid. Tense. A wall of muscle.
“Relax,” I whisper. “I’m not going to bite.”
“I’m armed,” he says. “Safety’s on, but—don’t startle me.”
“Noted.”
He pulls the foil blanket over us. It crinkles loudly.
Underneath, the heat begins to build.
It takes a few minutes. My shivering slows. His body is a furnace. Warmth radiates through his tactical gear, soaking into my frozen limbs.
