He tosses the branches onto the cleared ground. "Screaming burns calories. Panic clouds judgment. We require both to survive until extraction."
Extraction. The word sounds ridiculous out here.
"Nobody is coming tonight, City Boy." I pull the waterproof matches, the space blanket, and the flare gun from the bag. "The storm front is massive. No rescue teams are flying in this weather. The emergency beacon went down with the helicopter. We are a needle in a frozen haystack."
I dig deeper. The crew-issued cold-weather kit is wedged under the supplies—two wool sweaters, two pairs of thermal base layers, and a heavy parka rolled tight. Standard for crashes in the high country. Two foil-wrapped protein bars and a thin metal flask of energy gel come out with them. I toss the parka and one of the sweaters to Santi.
"Put them on, City Boy. Hypothermia is real." I toss a protein bar after them. "Eat. You burn calories like a furnace. I can't drag you out of hypothermia." He catches all three without looking. I peel my flight suit down to my waist, pull the second wool sweater over my thermal base layer, and zip the suit back up. The wool bites at my skin but it's instant warmth.
He steps closer, a silhouette blocking the weak light from the snow.
"I am not relying on a rescue chopper, Reese."
The absolute certainty in his tone makes my stomach tighten. He isn't hoping for a miracle. He knows something I don't. He has resources he hasn't mentioned. That target he was tracking, the file he kept reviewing before the engines died, belongs to a world much darker and more efficient than standard search and rescue.
"Good to know," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But until your mysterious backup arrives, my rules keep us breathing. Start laying the green branches down. Thickest ones on the bottom. We need at least eight inches of padding."
He kneels beside me. His shoulders brush against mine as he arranges the pine boughs. The heat radiating off his body is magnetic. I force myself not to lean into it.
I learned to fix my own problems because depending on anyone else is a fatal weakness. The only person who gets Reese Calloway out of a jam is Reese Calloway.
But kneeling next to Santi Costa in the freezing dark, arranging pine needles to stave off hypothermia, that certaintyfeels suddenly fragile. He doesn’t need me to coddle him. He simply works in tandem with me.
We finish the makeshift bed. It’s narrow. Too narrow.
"Take your coat off," I instruct, unpacking the crinkling silver foil of the space blanket.
He stops. He looks at me, his face an unreadable mask in the dim light.
"If we sweat through the inner layers, that moisture freezes." I explain, keeping my tone strictly professional. "We share body heat, put the space blanket over both of us to reflect the heat back down, then layer our coats over it for insulation. It's basic survival."
He considers this. He remains perfectly stoic. A normal man would have made a comment about getting lucky. Santi just processes the logic.
He strips off his ruined charcoal suit jacket. He tosses it onto the pine bed. He wears a dark, tailored dress shirt underneath. The fabric clings to the muscle of his chest and arms. He is not soft. He is not a desk jockey.
I take off my canvas flight jacket, suppressing a violent shiver as the sub-zero air hits my thin long-sleeved thermal. I lay my jacket next to his.
"Sit," I command.
He sits on the pine branches, his long legs stretched out. He sits stiff and guarded.
I crawl onto the bed beside him. There is no room to be polite. Survival requires abandoning personal space. I sit flush against his side. The immediate transfer of body heat draws a sharp gasp from me before I can stop it.
He shifts. His arm wraps around my shoulders. He pulls me hard against his chest.
"You're shaking," he says. His voice moves low against my spine.
"I'm fine. It's just the temperature change." I refuse to acknowledge how my body fits against his side. I snap the space blanket open. The loud crinkling sound shatters the quiet of the forest. I drape the reflective foil over our heads and tuck the edges under our legs, sealing us in a tiny, silver cocoon. Then I drag the coats over the top.
The heat inside our makeshift tent begins to rise immediately, trapped by the foil. But the chill seeps up from the ground, biting at my boots and the canvas of my flight suit. My head throbs with a rhythmic, sickening pulse.
Santi is solid against my back. He pulls my legs back against his thighs, wrapping me in warmth. His chin rests briefly on the top of my head.
"Sleep, Reese," he commands softly.
"Someone has to stay awake," I argue, my eyelids suddenly feeling like they weigh fifty pounds each. "If the snow drifts over the opening, we could suffocate. We need to check the air flow every two hours."
"I'll take the first watch."
