Page 29 of Fat Betrayed Mate
We haven't spoken since the incident at the training ground two days ago. Since the kiss that shattered every wall I'd built around my heart and left me more confused than ever. He tried to organize more training. I refused.
And now, I have to be alone with him for a full night.
"Fiona, Thomas," Elder Amelia calls, her voice cutting through the evening air. "Ready for your second trial? This challenge tests your ability to survive and work together under demanding conditions. You'll be transported to a remote section of our territory and left with basic supplies. Successful completion requires both of you to return by dawn."
She outlines the rules—no outside assistance, no communication devices, basic first aid supplies, and emergency rations only. The temperature is expected to drop significantly overnight, making shelter and warmth management critical.
"Any questions?" Amelia asks.
Thomas raises his hand. "What constitutes successful completion if one partner becomes injured or unable to continue?"
"Both partners must return safely. However, the methods and timeline are left to your discretion." Amelia’s eyes find mine briefly. "The goal is partnership, not individual survival. You need to learn how to lean on one another.”
Ha. Fat chance.
Far too soon, the truck drops us deep in the northern forest as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon. Thomas and I stand in a small clearing surrounded by towering pines, the silence between us thick with unresolved tension.
"We should survey the area," he says finally, shouldering his pack. "Find water, assess shelter options."
I nod, grateful for something concrete to focus on. "I'll check for edible plants while you scout."
We move through the forest with practiced efficiency, years of wilderness experience overriding personalcomplications. Thomas identifies a nearby stream and several potential shelter sites, while I locate wild onions and late-season berries that could supplement our rations.
The work feels familiar, comfortable even. Like the old days when we'd spend entire weekends in the woods, just the two of us and the endless green silence. But those memories are dangerous territory, so I push them away and focus on the tasks at hand.
"Here," Thomas says, stopping near a rocky outcropping that offers wind protection. "Good drainage, proximity to water, natural windbreak."
"It'll work," I agree, dropping my pack. "We'll need a lot of insulation. Temperature's supposed to drop below freezing."
We build the shelter in relative silence, gathering deadfall and pine boughs to construct a lean-to against the rocks. The work requires coordination—holding branches while the other secures them, passing materials back and forth, adjusting the structure until it's sound.
Despite our emotional distance, we move together seamlessly. Our bodies remember this dance, this partnership that was forged in countless nights like this one. When Thomas's fingers brush mine as he hands me a rope, electricity shoots up my arm. When I lean across him to secure a support beam, his sharp intake of breath tells me he feels it, too.
By the time we finish, full darkness has fallen, and the temperature has dropped noticeably. Our breath forms clouds in the frigid air as we build a small fire outside the shelter.
"Trail mix or energy bars?" Thomas asks, digging through the rations.
"Doesn't matter." I settle on a log near the fire, pulling my jacket tighter. "Food is food."
He hands me a granola bar and takes a seat on the opposite side of the fire pit, maintaining careful distance. We eat in silence, the only sounds the crackling flames and distant calls of night birds.
"Storm's coming in," Thomas observes, nodding toward the cloudy sky. "We should probably move into the shelter soon."
I follow his gaze to the heavy clouds gathering overhead, already feeling the first drops of icy rain. The shelter we built is sturdy but small—designed for efficiency rather than comfort. There's barely enough room for two people to lie down, which means we'll be sharing body heat whether we want to or not.
"Alright," I say, standing abruptly. "Let's get this over with."
The first fat raindrops hit as we gather our gear and retreat into the lean-to. Thomas has layered pine needles and his sleeping bag to create insulation from the ground, but the space is even more cramped than I'd anticipated. When we're both inside, there's maybe six inches between us.
"This isn't going to work," I mutter, trying to arrange my sleeping bag without touching him.
"Fiona." His voice is gentle but firm. "The temperature's dropping fast, and it's starting to rain. We need to share body heat, or we're going to have a miserable night."
"I'll be fine on my own."
"No, you won't." He unzips his sleeping bag, creating a larger shared space. "Come on. It's survival, not intimacy."
The distinction feels laughably thin, given the electricity that sparks every time we accidentally touch. But he's right—I'm already shivering despite my layers, and the night is just beginning.
