“Basic survival.”
I watched the set of his jaw. He was still scanning—the trees, the mirrors, the space behind us.
“You didn’t hesitate.”
He glanced at me, his eyes unreadable. “You don’t get that luxury out here.”
Something in my chest didn’t settle. It wasn't fear—it was a heightened state of awareness. A calibration to a new set of rules.
Nick drove with one hand, the other resting near the gear shift. He looked exactly as he had before the river. Same posture. Same focus. I simply hadn’t known how to read the intensity beneath it.
We slowed near the temporary field camp for the CEO offsite, a cluster of canvas tents set well beyond the main lodge. They were polished enough to be called an “immersive wildernessexperience,” which meant there was probably linen, a lantern, and no one emotionally prepared for insects.
A man paced near the path, looking deeply offended by the lack of a concierge. Victor. Cufflink man. At dinner, he’d talked over everyone as if he owned the horizon. Now, standing in the red dirt with a dead smartphone, he looked like middle management facing a hostile takeover by the sun.
Tragic.
“Finally,” Cufflink snapped as we stopped. “I’ve been trying to get a signal for twenty minutes. There’s an issue with—”
“Stay inside your designated area,” Nick said.
No apology. No customer-service lilt. Just a boundary, drawn in the dirt.
The man blinked. “I’m just trying to—”
“Stay inside,” Nick repeated.
The man’s mouth shut. He stepped back, his posture folding under the weight of Nick's absolute lack of interest in his grievance.
Nick got out and walked around to my door. He opened it and waited.
I stepped down, the ground feeling uneven and strange after the stillness of the river.
“Lunch,” Nick said. “Then we’ll head out again.”
A directive.
“Fine.”
Cufflink cleared his throat, attempting to regain some semblance of leverage. “About the signal—”
Nick turned his head. Just a fraction. “Later.”
The word was a deadbolt sliding into place. The man retreated.
I watched the exchange. No raised voices. No confrontation. Just a line held with such absolute certainty that people adjusted their own reality to fit it.
I turned toward the rest of the group, pausing to look back at the dust settling behind the vehicle. I brushed two fingers against the inside of my wrist, checking the pulse still racing there.
But something had shifted.
I looked at Nick. At the line of his shoulders. At the way he occupied space without ever needing to claim it.
I should have kept the door closed. Instead, I’ve just discovered that my pulse is moving faster than my judgment, and I’m currently more interested in the ranger than the exit strategy. I’m clearly suffering from a temporary lapse in professional judgment.
Worth the risk.
He caught my eye—a silent, questioning look.
