I slap a hand over my face. She still isn’t moving, and her shivering is getting worse. I pull on my own waterproofs, resisting the urge to shudder as wet plastic touches damp skin. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
Then my boots are on and I’m squelching over to her, ignoring the surprise on her face as I stomp around the other side of her tent, throw open the flap, and grab her bag with one hand and her sleeping roll with the other. Both are swimming in at least an inch of water, which is pouring in like a broken tap. I’m half-tempted to pick her up and throw her into my tent along with the rest of her stuff, but I draw the line at non-consensual manhandling.
No matter how obstinate she is being.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.” I chuck her things inside and stomp back over for the next load. Luckily, she hasn’t really unpacked, so her blow-up pillow, stove, and a half-open bag of clothes are all that’s left.
“By stealing my things?”
“For the love of god, London.” I squelch to a stop. “Will you let me fucking help you? You are not sleeping in that freezing swamp tonight. You’re bunking with me. End of discussion.”
“Angus, I… I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
I can see her panicking as she looks between me and the small, enclosed space we’re about to be stuck in. It’s the same fear that I feel. There’s something between us. A spark. Tension stretches tight as an elastic band.
And what we’re about to do?
Destined to snap it.
“Get in the tent.”
“Angus—”
“Get in the tent!” The shout comes from the next plot along, where an old lady is peeking her head out her own zip. She looks me up and down. “If you don’t, I will.”
Another light comes on to our left. “Would y’all please keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep?”
“Get in the tent!” A new voice joins the chorus.
I throw the rest of her things inside and turn to face her, hands on hips. “So what’s it going to be? Are you coming willingly, or am I throwing you in too?”
Turns out I’m not above manhandling her, after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Rowan
I lay on my back in the dark, cataloguing all the ways in which I’m fucked. The campsite is quiet, but for the steady drumbeat of rain on canvas, the whistle of the wind, and the occasional owl hooting softly through the trees. Quiet enough that I can hear each of Angus’ deep breaths and every rustle of the sleeping bag when either of us moves.
Mine was too wet to even contemplate unrolling, so Angus unzipped his and laid it over both of us. I’m in his sleeping bag liner, which he insisted I take, and wearing my only pair of leggings – thankfully not soaked, unlike my long-sleeved top – and a soft, flannel shirt that smells like him.
The tent is small. Small enough that if one of us so much as twitches, our bodies will touch, separated only by the whisper-thin fabric of Angus’ liner.
I’m aware of every inch of my skin, goose-pimpled and sparking with electric nerves. Angus’ profile is limned by moonlight. Are his eyes shut? Is he asleep, unbothered by our proximity? Or is he as on edge as I am, all too aware of my body next to his?
“Angus?”
“Yes?”
Awake then. Alert. The word crisp and clear in the small space we share, not slurred and softened by the edges of sleep.
“Thank you. For letting me sleep here. And the liner. And the shirt.”
“Couldn’t have you freezing to death.” He shifts, head turning toward mine. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like being helped.”
