Page 33 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Ruined.

Remade.

And I never want it to end.

We remain entwined as afternoon stretches toward evening, drifting in and out of sleep, conversation, and renewed exploration. The shelter's confines no longer feel restrictive but rather intimate, a world unto ourselves where reality can't intrude.

Until it does.

The hand-crank radio on the shelf crackles suddenly to life, its automated weather alert cutting through our private sanctuary.

"Weather advisory update for Angel's Peak region. Storm system moving east, clearing expected by tomorrow afternoon. Temperature rise predicted. Travel advisories remain in effect for backcountry areas. Next update at 0600."

Reality crashes back with the mechanical voice.Tomorrow. Clearing. The bubble of our isolation prepares to burst.

Jackson's arms tighten slightly around me, his chest rising with a deep breath against my cheek. Neither of us speaks immediately, the implications hanging heavy between us.

Tomorrow means descent. Returning to Angel's Peak. To separate rooms, separate lives. To the article I came to write, and the mountain he never leaves.

"We should eat something." Jackson's voice breaks the silence, practical concerns reasserting themselves. "Conserve strength for tomorrow."

"Right." The word tastes hollow as I disentangle myself from his warmth, immediately missing the connection.

We dress in silence, the easy intimacy of moments before replaced by something more complicated. Not regret—at least not on my part. But there’s no way to avoid our impending separation.

This must end.

Jackson moves to the woodstove, heating a can of stew. His back presents an unreadable canvas, muscles shifting beneath his thermal shirt.

"So." My voice breaks the growing silence. "Tomorrow."

"Looks like it." He doesn't turn; he focuses on the simple task before him.

"Back to reality."

"Back to your article." Now he glances over his shoulder, expression carefully neutral. "Got what you needed?"

"For the article? More than enough." The question carries double meaning, intentional or not. "With you…not nearly."

He nods once, returning his attention to our meal.

His silence reveals nothing of his thoughts regarding what transpired between us—whether it was merely stress relief or something more significant. Pride prevents me from asking outright, from appearing to need reassurance that what we shared mattered.

I can’t because we agreed upfront. This was never meant to last.

We eat in relative silence, with occasional comments about practical matters—the descent path, weather considerations, and the estimated time to reach the town. Conversation that carefully avoids addressing the shift in our relationship and the uncertain territory ahead.

Night falls early, hastened by storm clouds still lingering above. The shelter grows colder with sunset, necessitating closer proximity around the woodstove once more.

Jackson arranges blankets near the heat source, and our sleeping area from the previous night is now laden with new significance. When he holds the blanket open in invitation, I join him without hesitation, our bodies fitting together with newly familiar ease.

His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. My head finds its place naturally beneath his chin, ear pressed to his steady heartbeat.

"Jackson?" My voice emerges softly in the darkness.

"Hm?" The sound rumbles through his chest against my cheek.

"What happens when we reach town?"

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