"See that?" He pointed to the wet patch seeping up through the soil. "We're close."
He found a thick root, sliced a section free, and shaved off the outer edge at both ends, like he was sharpening a pencil. He cut the root in half and handed me a piece. "Here. Suck on this."
I raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure there's supposed to be wine and candlelight before that line."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "It's tree sap. Won't taste great, but it'll keep us alive."
He bit the end of his root and started sucking, showing me how it worked.
I copied him, and warm, earthy, bitter juice filled my mouth. But I couldn't stop the slurping sound escaping my lips. "Ewww, that's no prosecco."
Mitch's eyes flicked toward me, sparking a curious expression before he looked away. "Don't waste it. Take it slow."
I nodded, sucking harder on the root, slurping again. "Oops, sorry."
Mitch pressed his lips together, but his shoulders started shaking. He turned his head away, but a laugh burst out of him, rough and surprised, like he'd forgotten how.
I hadn't thought the man was capable.
When he finally looked back at me, his eyes were crinkled at the corners.
I blinked at him. "You enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, actually," he said, still grinning. "I am."
A smile tugged at my lips. I sucked on the root again, and when I couldn't stop the sucking noise, I started giggling. "I can't help it!"
That broke him completely. His laugh rang out, unrestrained this time, and mine tangled with it. We sat there like idiots, laughing until tears pricked my eyes and my stomach hurt. It felt incredible, as if we'd both been holding our breath for days and had finally remembered how to exhale.
Mitch set his root aside and stood. "Now for the fire."
"Hey," I said, reaching for his hand. "Take a rest for a minute. You've been carrying me for hours."
He slid his hand away. "I'm fine." He peeled off his torn shirt and hung it over a low branch. "Need to get a fire going before the sun sets."
I told myself not to stare. I failed.
His shoulders were broad, and his arms corded with muscle. Sweat glistened on his skin, highlighting every ridge and plane. A few scars marked his ribs. Old wounds, not fresh ones.
A massive purple bruise spread across his back, dark and angry. It had to have been from the fall. Yet he moved with a kind of effortless strength that told me this wasn't the first time he'd pushed through a pain barrier.
He shouldn't be moving at all, let alone gathering firewood.
"Mitch, please," I tried again. "Come rest for a bit. Then I'll help you."
"Just relax." He picked up a large branch and snapped it over his thigh.
I set the root aside and undid my ponytail, dragging my fingers through the tangles while I watched him move through the trees. His muscles shifted beneath sun-bronzed skin as he gathered sticks. Even exhausted and starving, his body was incredible.
My ex, Trent, had never looked like that. He'd been soft around the middle, always joking that his favorite exercise was walking to the fridge during commercial breaks. He would have curled up and died within the first hour out here.
But Mitch was built for this land. Built for survival. There was practicality to his strength. His body was a tool he'd honed through necessity rather than vanity.
I shouldn't be noticing the way his back flexed as he crouched to lift a small log, or how his jeans hung low on his hips, fitting just right.
But I was too tired to look away. At least, that's what I told myself.
He made a sound, half laugh and half groan of relief, as he dumped the log next to the rest of his haul. "This'll do for now."