Caged Fangirl Experiment

The cabin grows quieter as the evening deepens.

The fire has burned down low again, glowing amber and gold beneath the crackling logs you nearly killed yourselves retrieving earlier. Richard’s stretched out on the blanket near the hearth, one arm bent behind his head, boots abandoned somewhere near the door. You’re curled against the bedframe with Persuasion in your lap, reading by firelight while snow gleams pale beyond the window. It should feel ridiculous. Reading Jane Austen aloud to Richard Hammond in a mountain cabin while stranded in Switzerland.

And yet somehow it doesn’t.

He listens more closely than you expected, too. Not pretending to listen while waiting to interrupt, actually listening. Occasionally asking questions. Occasionally making ridiculous commentary in dramatic voices until you threaten to hit him with the book. You turn another page.

Then pause.

“Oh,” you murmur. “This part’s lovely.”

He glances up lazily. “That’s dangerous. You said that before the emotional yearning chapter.”

You ignore him and keep reading aloud.

“All the privilege I claim for my own sex... is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”

The words settle into the room softly. The fire cracks. Richard’s expression changes, not dramatically, just slightly. Something quieter. More thoughtful. You lower the book a little.

“What?” you ask.

He’s staring into the fire. “Do women really do that?”

“What?”

“Love longest.” He glances over at you. “Even when it’s hopeless.”

You shrug lightly. “Some do.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It probably is.”

He studies you for a second. “Have you?”

You blink. “Have I what?”

“Loved someone like that.”

The question catches you off guard. Normally you’d deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject. But something about this cabin, about him tonight, quiet and open in the firelight, makes honesty feel strangely easy.

You look down at the page. “No,” you admit softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love.”

His brows lift slightly.

“Really?”

You nod once. “I’ve cared about people. Thought I loved them maybe. But…” You hesitate. “Not like that. Not in the devastating Austen sense.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

He tilts his head. “You strike me as someone who’d feel things very intensely.”

You snort softly. “That’s horrifying. Thanks.”

“I mean it as a compliment.”

You glance at him. He’s serious. That annoying warmth spreads in your chest again.

You clear your throat. “What about you?”

“Oh, definitely,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Definitely what?”

“Loved disastrously. Multiple times. I’m very talented at it.”

You laugh quietly. “You’re impossible to picture heartbroken.”

“That’s because I’m charming.” He grins faintly, then looks back toward the fire. “Doesn’t mean I’m immune.”

The room settles again.

Then he says, carefully, “Worst relationship?”

You groan immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on,” he says. “We’re snowbound. There are no consequences here.”

“There are always consequences.”

“That sounds ominous.”

You hesitate, then sigh.

“My last boyfriend,” you say slowly, “we dated for nine months.”

“Mmhm.”

“And I genuinely think the man was allergic to affection.”

Richard frowns. “What, emotionally?”

“No, physically.” You stare into the fire. “He wouldn’t touch me. Ever. Unless we were having sex.”

The joking expression slips off Richard’s face. You continue before you can stop yourself.

“No kissing unless he wanted something. No hand-holding. No cuddling. No random touching.” You shrug, trying to sound unaffected. “Sex was basically just… functional. Like he was ticking something off a list.”

Richard stares at you like you’ve confessed to a war crime.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“Not even foreplay?”

You bark out a laugh. “God no.”

“That’s criminal.”

You glance over, surprised by the genuine outrage in his voice.

“I’m serious,” he says. “That’s not sex, that’s a hostage negotiation.”

You laugh despite yourself, but there’s something painfully earnest in his expression now.

“Did you tell him it bothered you?”

“Eventually.” You pick at the edge of the blanket. “He said I was ‘too emotional’ about intimacy.”

Richard looks genuinely offended on your behalf. “Right. I’d like to fight him in a Tesco car park.”

That makes you laugh harder.

“Unfortunately,” you say, “he’s not even the worst one.”

His eyes widen. “There’s worse?”

“Oh, much worse.” You shake your head. “There was another guy before him. Lived a few towns over. Funny, charming, attentive…”

Richard winces immediately. “That’s already suspicious.”

“We dated for almost a year before I found out he had a wife and two children.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Yep.”

“How did you find out?”

“He texted me on Christmas Eve, told me everything, he said that his wife had gotten him a 70 inch tv as a gift and he realized that I wasn’t worth the risk of losing all that stuff. He didn’t consider for a second that had I known he was married I would have never spoken to him again anyway.”

Richard drops his head back dramatically. “Men are unbelievable.”

“You are men.”

“Fair point.” He rubs a hand over his face. “God, that’s awful.”

You shrug again, softer this time. “After a while you start wondering if maybe you’re just… bad at picking people.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says gently, “Or maybe people have been bad at deserving you.”

The words hit harder than they should. You look away quickly. The fire suddenly feels too warm.

After a moment, you ask quietly, “What about you?”

Richard huffs a laugh and stretches out further on the blanket. “Oh, I’ve got a spectacular track record.”

“I’m listening.”

“There was one woman who only dated me because she thought I could introduce her to film stars.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. Every date somehow became about who I knew.” He slips into a posh voice: “‘Do you think Tom Cruise would come to dinner?’”

You laugh.

“I should’ve realized sooner,” he admits. “But she was very fit and I’m occasionally an idiot.”

“Only occasionally?”

“On weekdays.”

You smile faintly. Then his expression changes again. Softer this time.

“And then there’s…” He trails off.

You glance over. “There’s what?”

He stares into the fire for a long moment before answering.

“There’s someone now.”

Your stomach tightens unexpectedly.

“Oh.”

“She’s brilliant,” he says quietly. “Completely terrifying, but brilliant.”

You try very hard to sound casual. “That sounds healthy.”

“She thinks I’m a jackass.”

“Well…” you say carefully, “that does narrow it down.”

He laughs softly.

“She’s smart, prepared for everything, calls me on my bullshit constantly.”

Something in your chest starts beating harder.

“She also,” he continues, “has this habit of pretending she doesn’t care about things when she actually cares very deeply.”

You stare at him. Oblivious, he keeps going.

“And she looks at people like she’s trying to figure them out before they can disappoint her.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“She sounds complicated,” you manage.

“She is.” He smiles faintly at the flames. “I think I probably love her.”

Your heart stumbles painfully.

“But,” he adds, almost lightly, “she seems to hate my guts.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Because obviously he can’t mean you. You clear your throat and force your eyes back to the book in your lap.

“Sounds like you’re doomed, then.”

Richard smiles a little sadly.

“Probably.”

The silence after that last sentence stretches long and slow. Not awkward.

Dangerous.

The fire settles into a low, steady crackle between you. You’re still holding Persuasion open in your lap, though neither of you has paid attention to it for several minutes now. Richard’s lying on his side on the blanket near the hearth, one arm tucked beneath his head, looking at you with an intensity that’s oddly disarming in the soft firelight. And your own stupid heart is twisting itself into knots.

Because somewhere out there, back in the real world where roads exist and people aren’t stranded in mountain cabins, there’s apparently a woman he admires deeply enough to call brilliant.

A woman he maybe loves. And for some irrational reason, the thought bothers you far more than it should. Which is ridiculous. You barely tolerate each other half the time.

You clear your throat and force yourself back into practicality. “Well, if you actually care about her, maybe stop trying to charm your way through everything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, am I?”

“Yes.”

He grins faintly. “Brutal.”

“I’m serious.” You shift against the bedframe. “You hide behind jokes constantly. It’s exhausting.”

“That’s because feelings are horrifying.”

“They’re also necessary.”

He watches you quietly.

You continue, warming to the subject despite yourself. “If you really like her, stop performing all the time. Just be honest.”

“Honest how?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Tell her things. Ask her things. Listen when she answers instead of waiting for your turn to say something clever.”

He winces theatrically. “You make me sound unbearable.”

“You are unbearable.”

“Fair.”

“But…” You hesitate. “You’re also obviously a good man.”

Something flickers across his face at that. You press on quickly before you can overthink it.

“You do thoughtful things naturally when you’re not trying so hard to be entertaining. Lean into that.”

“Thoughtful things,” he repeats slowly. “Such as?”

“You remember details,” you say. “Use them.”

He tilts his head. “Explain.”

“Well…” You tuck your legs beneath the blanket. “Most men default to flowers and chocolate.”

“Nothing wrong with flowers and chocolate.”

“No, there isn’t. But they’re lazy unless there’s thought behind them.”

His expression sharpens with interest now, completely focused on you.

“What counts as thought?”

You glance at the fire. “Like… buying someone their favourite flowers. Or noticing what kind of chocolate they actually like instead of grabbing a random box at a petrol station.”

“Right.”

“Or seeing a book somewhere and thinking of them.” Your fingers brush the cover of Persuasion. “That sort of thing.”

He’s looking at you very steadily now.

“And honestly?” you continue softly, “sometimes the biggest thing is just showing up.”

“Showing up.”

“Yes.” You laugh quietly, but there’s bitterness in it. “You’d be amazed how many people say they care and then disappear the second it requires effort.”

Something about the way you say it makes his expression soften.

“So,” he says carefully, “consistency.”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Helping plan things instead of winging everything at the last second.”

He looks personally attacked.

You point at him. “Don’t make that face.”

“I feel targeted.”

“You should.”

He laughs softly.

You continue, quieter now. “Casual affection matters too.”

His eyes flick up to yours. You suddenly become very aware of what you’re saying. But you keep going anyway.

“Not performative stuff. Just…” You gesture vaguely. “Touching someone when you walk past them. Holding their hand. Sitting close because you want to, not because you’re trying to get something out of it.”

Richard’s gone very still.

“And openly showing interest,” you add. “Not making someone feel like they’re asking for too much by wanting reassurance.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer.

He studies you for a long moment, then says softly, “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what happens when your romantic history resembles a landfill fire.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I think it’s what happens when you know exactly how you deserve to be loved.”

Your breath catches slightly. You look away first.

The fire pops loudly between you.

Then, after a moment, you ask, “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What matters to you?”

He leans back slightly, considering it.

“A woman who actually cares about the things I love,” he says after a moment.

You smile faintly. “Cars?”

“Not just cars.” He grins. “Though preferably cars, yes.”

“What else?”

“I like enthusiasm.” He gestures loosely. “When someone lights up talking about something. Doesn’t even matter what it is.”

You glance down at your book.

“I like affection,” he continues more quietly. “Real affection. Not just sex.”

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten.

“I like conversation.” He smiles slightly. “Which is unfortunate considering most of my conversations with certain people involve insults.”

You snort softly.

“But I like passion,” he says. “Loyalty. Someone who’ll actually tell me when I’m being an idiot instead of pretending I’m wonderful all the time.”

“That narrows the field.”

“Massively.”

You grin despite yourself.

He looks at you then, not joking now, not teasing. Just looking.

“And I like women who challenge me,” he says quietly. “Keeps life interesting.”

Your pulse stutters. For one dangerous second, the room feels suspended in amber firelight and silence. Then you break eye contact, suddenly unable to hold it.

“Well,” you murmur, trying for lightness and failing slightly, “hopefully your mystery woman appreciates all this emotional growth.”

Richard’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I think she’s getting there.”

The fire crackles softly, shadows shifting across the cabin walls, and you become painfully aware of every inch between you and Richard Hammond. Which isn’t much anymore. You’re still clutching Persuasion in your lap, though your thumb hasn’t turned a page in ages. He’s watching you with that same intent, unreadable focus, and it’s making your pulse stumble all over itself. Because somewhere in the middle of this conversation, something inside you finally gave up pretending.

You have feelings for this man.

God help you. Not just attraction, though there’s plenty of that now, warm and heavy in your stomach whenever he looks at you too long. No, it’s worse than that.

You care. And the realization is terrifying. Because Richard Hammond feels like chaos. Charming, impulsive chaos wrapped in blue Henleys and smart remarks. The kind of man who laughs in the face of plans and wings half his life on instinct.And with your track record?

You need certainty. Consistency. Someone steady. Not someone who feels like standing too close to a lit match.

You clear your throat softly. “You know why you irritate me so much?”

His mouth curves slightly. “Oh, this should be good.”

“I’m serious.”

That wipes the grin from his face immediately.

You look down at the book in your lap. “You don’t seem to take anything seriously.”

He leans back slightly, listening.

“You joke constantly. You flirt with everyone. You throw yourself into things without thinking.” You exhale slowly. “And I think… after the relationships I’ve had, that most women have had, we can’t do uncertain.”

The confession sits naked between you.

“We don’t want half-hearted,” you admit quietly. “We don’t want someone who disappears the second things get difficult or complicated.”

Richard’s expression softens. You continue before you lose your nerve.

“We want someone who’s all in.”

The fire pops sharply. For once, he doesn’t immediately joke.

Instead he asks, very quietly, “What does that look like for you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your ideal future.” His gaze stays fixed on you. “What do you actually want?”

You look down at your hands for a long moment. No one’s ever really asked you that before. Not properly, expecting an actual answer. And somehow, here in this tiny cabin in the Alps with snow piled against the windows and firelight painting gold across the floorboards, honesty feels easier than it should.

“A quiet love,” you say softly.

Richard doesn’t interrupt.

“Not boring,” you clarify quickly. “Just… safe. Sweet. Passionate.” Your mouth curves faintly. “Long-lasting.”

His eyes don’t leave your face.

“I want someone I can actually share things with,” you continue. “Dreams. Plans. Stupid thoughts at two in the morning. Someone who encourages the things I love instead of tolerating them.”

You glance toward the book in your lap.

“I want partnership,” you murmur. “Mutual support. Mutual excitement. Someone who wants to build a life with me, not just fit me around theirs.”

The room feels impossibly still.

“And physically?” he asks softly.

You laugh quietly, embarrassed. “Affection. A lot of it.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“I want a little house in the countryside,” you continue quickly, trying not to notice. “With a big garden. Somewhere quiet.”

“What kind of garden?”

You smile despite yourself. “Wildflowers. Herbs. Climbing roses.”

“Hm.”

“And somewhere to swim,” you add dreamily. “A pond or a lake nearby. A library absolutely overflowing with books.” Your smile widens now, more genuine. “And enough freedom to travel. I want to see everything.”

Richard’s watching you like you’re telling him something holy.

You laugh softly. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“No,” he says immediately. “It sounds lovely.”

Your chest tightens.

“What about you?” you ask quietly.

He leans back on one hand, thoughtful.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

His mouth twitches.

“I want most of the same things.”

You blink.

“I already have the countryside part,” he says lightly. “And technically the cottage sized house.”

“You live in a castle.”

“It’s a small castle.”

You snort.

“And I’ve already got the barn full of restoration projects.”

“How many cars are we talking?”

He pretends to think. “Enough that any sane woman would probably leave immediately.”

You laugh softly.

“But…” His expression grows quieter. “I want someone to share it with.”

Your smile fades slightly.

“I want conversation,” he says. “Affection. Loyalty. Passion.” His eyes flick toward you. “Someone who’s excited by life. Someone who challenges me instead of just laughing at the jokes.”

“You do like being challenged,” you murmur.

“Very much.”

The air between you feels thick now. Heavy.

“And I want someone who actually wants me there,” he admits softly. “Not just the entertaining version of me.”

Something in your chest twists painfully.

Before you can stop yourself, you say quietly, “That actually sounds quite lovely.”

You mean it as a joke. Mostly.

“Despite being you.”

But Richard suddenly goes very still. The teasing vanishes completely from his face. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his feet and crosses the small distance between you. The mattress dips as he sits beside you on the bed. Your breath catches immediately.

“Do you really mean that?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “Mean what?”

“That it sounds lovely.”

His voice has changed. Gone low and earnest in a way you’ve almost never heard from him. You stare at him, suddenly unable to think clearly.

“Yes,” you admit quietly.

Richard studies your face for a long moment. Then he asks, just as softly:

“What are your favourite flowers?”

Your pulse skips.

“What?”

“Your favourite flowers.”

You blink at him stupidly. “Pink peonies.”

A tiny smile touches his mouth.

“And chocolate?”

Your throat feels dry suddenly.

“…White chocolate.”

The smile deepens slightly.

And then—

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hits all at once. The questions. The conversation. The way he’s been looking at you all evening. The woman who’s prepared for everything. Who challenges him. Who thinks he’s a jackass. Who pretends not to care when she cares deeply. Your heart lurches hard enough to hurt. Richard inches closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You can feel the heat coming off him now. See the gold firelight caught in his eyes.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.

Your breath leaves you shakily.

“Richard…”

But you don’t finish the sentence. Because he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.And suddenly, terrifyingly….You think maybe he always has been.

The cabin feels impossibly small now. Too warm. Too quiet. Richard sits beside you on the narrow bed, close enough that your knees brush, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin layers between you. Firelight flickers across his face, softening the sharp edges of his expression into something achingly earnest.

And he’s still looking at you like that. Like you matter. Your pulse is so loud you’re half convinced he can hear it.

“Richard…” you whisper again, but this time it comes out unsteady.

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

And very slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, pull away, laugh this off if you wanted, he lifts one hand to your face. His fingertips brush your cheek, warm, careful. You stop breathing.

“You can tell me no,” he says softly.

The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. Because this is not the Richard Hammond you thought you knew. Not the loud, cocky, endlessly teasing man who grins through disasters and turns everything into a joke. This version is quiet, patient, and, looking at you like he’s afraid of startling you. Your heart clenches painfully and when he leans in the rest of the way, you don’t stop him.

The first kiss is almost impossibly soft. Just the bare brush of his lips against yours, tentative, testing. You freeze in shock for half a heartbeat, your mind going completely blank. Then he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still slow. No pressure, no demand, just warm lips brushing yours with clear, unmistakable intent.

A shiver runs through you so hard you feel it in your fingertips, and before you can think yourself out of it, you sigh softly against his mouth and kiss him back. The sound he makes is tiny. Relieved. His thumb strokes lightly across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss only slightly, following your lead completely. Giving you room to retreat even now. But you don’t want to retreat.

Because the second you kiss him back properly, something inside you settles. A warmth. A terrifying, wonderful sense of rightness.

His lips are softer than you imagined. Warm and careful and infinitely more restrained than the chemistry crackling between you should allow. He kisses like he’s listening, attentive to every tiny reaction, every breath you take.

You slide your fingers shakily into the front of his Henley. He exhales softly against your mouth. When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face nearly wrecks you. Wonder. Hope. Want. You stare back at him, breathing unevenly, your lips tingling. And beneath the dizzy warmth, fear crashes back in hard. Because this is Richard Hammond.

Funny. Charming. Reckless.

Everything you promised yourself you’d never fall for again. Your hesitation must show on your face, because his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

“I know what you think of me.”

“That’s not….”

“It is.” His hand slips gently from your cheek into your hair. “You think I’m all performance. All jokes and chaos.”

You don’t deny it. He smiles faintly, sadly.

“The cameras get the loud version of me,” he says softly. “That’s part of the job. But that’s not all I am.”

Your eyes search his face.

“When I care about something, I’m serious about it.” His voice lowers. “I’m good with money. I’m loyal to a fault. I show up when it matters.”

The words hit straight to the center of you.

“And I know I can be immature sometimes,” he admits with a tiny huff of laughter. “But I’m not careless with people.”

Your chest aches. Especially because he sounds so sincere.

“Would you…” He hesitates then, and somehow that uncertainty affects you more than any confidence ever could. “Would you give me a chance?”

Your head and heart immediately go to war. Your head screams that this is dangerous. That men like him are exciting until they leave wreckage behind. That attraction is not stability, and chemistry is not safety. But your heart, your heart remembers the way he carried you to the fire when you were freezing.

The way he listened to you talk about books and dreams like they mattered. The outrage in his voice when he heard how badly you’d been treated. The way he’s looking at you now. Like he means every word. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“Oh, this is such a terrible idea,” you whisper.

Richard’s mouth twitches. “Probably.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Then finally, quietly:

“Yes.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before he kisses you again.

This time deeper.

Not rushed, not frantic, but no longer tentative.

Wanted.

His hand slides into your hair properly now, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves against yours with slow, devastating confidence. You melt into him almost immediately, every nerve ending waking up under the heat of his attention. He kisses like he’s savoring you. Like he’s been thinking about this for longer than he should have. Your fingers clutch tighter at his shirt as he tilts his head and gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth. The tiny sting makes you gasp softly. Richard groans under his breath at the sound. Then his tongue brushes slowly against yours, warm and teasing, before tracing lightly along the roof of your mouth in a way that sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe against his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmurs hoarsely, kissing you again immediately.

The world narrows to warmth and firelight and him. To the scrape of his stubble against your skin. To his hands, still careful, still grounding, one at your waist and the other tangled gently in your hair. He kisses you until your thoughts dissolve completely, until your lips feel swollen and sensitive and your entire body is trembling with want. When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. Richard rests his forehead against yours for one dizzy second before shifting suddenly, strong hands gripping your hips. You let out a startled sound as he pulls you fully onto his lap. The movement presses you flush against him. And the look in his eyes when you settle there….

Warm.

Hungry.

Absolutely wrecked for you.

“Christ,” he mutters softly, like he can’t quite believe this is real either.

Richard kisses you again like he’s been holding himself back for days.

Maybe he has.

The second his mouth finds yours, all the careful restraint from earlier begins to unravel into something deeper, hungrier, though no less reverent. His hands tighten instinctively at your waist as you settle fully against him on the narrow bed, your knees bracketing his hips on the blanket. And this close, there’s no ignoring it anymore. No pretending. You can feel exactly how much he wants you. The realization sends heat rushing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Instinctively you rock against him, warm, languid desire pooling in the pit of your belly.

Your breath catches against his lips.

Richard groans softly at the sound and kisses you harder, still slow but full of aching intent, like he’s savoring every second of this because he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have it. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. He shivers.

Actually shivers.

“Jesus,” he whispers against your mouth, voice roughened almost beyond recognition.

The sound alone nearly undoes you. You kiss him back desperately now, all the pent-up tension between you finally breaking loose. Weeks, months, maybe, of irritation and chemistry and hidden glances suddenly make terrible, perfect sense. His hand slides up your back beneath your sweater. The instant his palm touches bare skin under your undershirt, you gasp sharply.

Richard pauses immediately.

Not stopping, just checking.

His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven. “Okay?”

You nod quickly, already chasing his mouth again.

“Yes.”

That soft, wrecked expression flashes across his face again before he kisses you deeper, one large hand splayed against the small of your back beneath your clothes now, fingertips brushing your skin in slow, exploratory strokes that make your whole body shiver. But there’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Nothing rushed. Every movement feels deliberate. Meaningful. Like he understands exactly how much trust this requires from you. And somehow that matters almost more than the desire itself.

You shift against him unconsciously and his grip tightens at your waist as he exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs huskily, his own hips jerking as he holds you against him.

Heat floods your face instantly.

He kisses along your jaw before you can respond, slower now, his lips brushing your skin with maddening softness.

“You smell so good,” he whispers against your throat. “Like lemons and lavender, I don’t know whether to drink you or eat you.”

Your eyes flutter closed. The scrape of his stubble against your neck sends sparks down your spine as he presses open-mouthed kisses beneath your ear, teasing gently with his teeth before soothing the spot with his tongue. A helpless little sound slips out of you. Richard makes a low noise in response that sounds almost pained.

“God, don’t do that,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Those sounds.” He kisses your throat again, lingering this time. “I’m barely holding on as it is.”

Your fingers drag lightly across his shoulders beneath the Henley, feeling warm muscle shift under your hands. He shivers again. The realization that you can affect him this way sends another pulse of heat through your body. Richard pulls back just enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed now, hair thoroughly ruined beneath your hands, eyes dark and intensely focused on your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.

The sincerity of it catches you completely off guard. You open your mouth automatically to deflect the compliment, but he kisses you before you can.

“I mean it,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve thought about this so many times it’s actually embarrassing.”

Your breath hitches.

“You have?”

He laughs softly under his breath, sounding almost overwhelmed. “Sweetheart, I have wanted you for ages.”

The endearment makes your stomach flip violently.

Richard brushes your hair back from your face with shaking fingers.

“And this,” He kisses you once, slow and deep. “being allowed to kiss you like this…” Another kiss, softer now. “Honestly feels like a privilege.”

Something in your chest melts completely. No one has ever touched you like this before, like your comfort matters, like your body is something to be cherished instead of taken for granted. His hands slide carefully higher beneath your sweater and undershirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist with almost reverent slowness. You shiver hard beneath his touch.

“Soft,” he whispers absently, like he’s talking to himself now. “Christ, your skin’s soft.”

Your forehead drops briefly against his shoulder as another wave of heat rushes through you. Richard’s arms tighten around you immediately, grounding instead of demanding.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs again into your hair. “And you have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about that.

Long.

Deep.

His tongue brushes yours slowly as his hands move carefully along your sides beneath the layers of clothing, never pushing too far, always waiting for the smallest sign of hesitation. When you arch into his touch instead, he exhales sharply against your mouth. Then very slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, Richard hooks his fingers gently into the hem of your sweater.

His eyes search yours.

You nod once.

Carefully, reverently, he lifts the sweater up and over your head along with the thin undershirt beneath it, his fingertips grazing your skin as the fabric disappears. The cold air kisses your newly bare skin.

But the way Richard looks at you makes heat flood through you all over again. Richard stares at you for a moment like he’s forgotten how words work. The firelight dances across your skin, warm gold against lace and flushed cheeks, and his hands, still resting carefully at your waist, tighten ever so slightly. Then he lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“That,” he says hoarsely, “is not what I expected under the terrifying scout uniform.”

Heat rushes to your face immediately. “Excuse you?”

His eyes flick downward again, openly admiring now. “Lace?”

You glance down self-consciously at the skimpy lace bra and then back at him. “A girl deserves to feel nice under her work clothes.”

Richard groans quietly like the answer itself affected him physically.

“That is an unbelievably dangerous thing to say to me right now.”

Despite yourself, you laugh breathlessly. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, fingers brushing lightly along the lace at the edges, “if I’d known this was under those jumpers all this time, I genuinely wouldn’t have been able to behave myself.”

The teasing tone softens the words, but the awe in his expression is completely sincere. Your stomach flips hard.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“And you,” he says quietly, tracing one fingertip over the swell of your breast, coaxing the nipple to peak, “are absolutely unfair and fucking gorgeous.”

The touch sends a shiver through you.

Richard notices immediately. His gaze lifts to your face at once, watching every reaction with intense focus, like he’s fascinated by the way your breathing changes beneath his hands.

“You like that,” he says softly.

You huff a shaky laugh. “Don’t sound so smug about it.”

“Can’t help it.” His thumbs stroke gently over your breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms as he teases the aching tips. “You’re very responsive.”

The warmth in his voice makes your whole body ache pleasantly. His hands move slowly, never hurried, never grasping, just exploring the curve of your waist, the softness of your skin, the shape of you beneath his palms like he’s trying to memorize it. And the entire time he watches your face. Not your body.

You.

Every hitch of breath. Every shiver. Every tiny sound. Like your reactions matter more to him than anything else. The realization alone nearly melts you. Richard leans down slowly, giving you time to stop him, instead your fingers slide into his hair again. His eyes close briefly at the touch, then his mouth brushes your shoulder.

Soft.

Warm.

You inhale sharply, shuddering. He kisses along your collarbone with slow, lingering affection, lips grazing your skin between murmured words that make your heart squeeze painfully.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

Another kiss.

“So soft.”

His teeth graze lightly against the sensitive skin near your throat before he soothes the spot with another warm kiss. You shiver hard. Not entirely from desire this time.

Richard notices instantly.

His head lifts. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fi….”

“You’re shivering.”

Before you can protest, his arms tighten around you and suddenly you’re moving.A startled laugh escapes you as he stands, one arm securely around your back while the other slips beneath your thighs. Instinctively your legs wrap around his waist.

“Richard….”

“You’re freezing,” he says firmly, carrying you effortlessly across the cabin.

“But the bed….”

“Too cold.”

The fire crackles warmly beside the blankets spread across the floor. Richard kneels carefully, lowering you onto the thick pile of blankets and pillows near the hearth with surprising gentleness for someone who normally barrels through life like a caffeinated Labrador. You laugh softly as he follows you down immediately, one hand braced beside your head while the other smooths instinctively over your hip.

The firelight flickers over his face. Over the flushed skin of his throat where you’d tugged his Henley collar crooked. Over the expression in his eyes now, warm, dazed, wanting. Like he still can’t quite believe this is happening.

“You have any idea,” he murmurs softly as he settles beside you, fingertips brushing your cheek, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Your heart thuds painfully.

“No,” you whisper honestly.

Richard smiles faintly.

“Probably for the best.” Then he leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep beside the fire while snow glows silently beyond the cabin windows.

The fire crackles softly beside you, warmth washing over your skin in waves while snow drifts silently beyond the windows. The entire world feels very far away now. There’s only him. Richard stretched beside you on the blankets, one hand cupping your face while the other rests carefully at your waist, fingers absently stroking your skin beneath the lace edge of your bra.

And the thing that undoes you most is that he’s holding back.

You can feel how much he wants you. The tension in his body every time you shift against him. The roughness in his breathing when you kiss him deeper. The way his hand flexes instinctively against your hip before gentling immediately again. But he never pushes. Never assumes. Every kiss feels like a question he’s willing to let you answer.

It’s that restraint, that care, that finally breaks through the last of your fear. Because for the first time in your life, you feel wanted without feeling pressured. Desired without being reduced to it.

Richard brushes his nose lightly against yours, breathing unevenly. “You’re freezing and I’m trying very hard to behave myself.”

You laugh softly, breathless. “You? Behave?”

“Heroically.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “I’m attempting to be respectful.”

“You are respectful.”

His expression softens instantly at that. You run your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes close briefly beneath the touch. Then quietly, before you can lose your nerve, you whisper:

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Richard stills completely.

His eyes search yours carefully. “You sure?”

You nod once.

“Yes.”

The look that crosses his face is almost devastating want and tenderness tangled together so tightly you can’t separate them.

“Come here,” he murmurs softly.

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper with intention rather than urgency. His hand slides along your side beneath the blanket while his mouth moves against yours with aching patience, like he’s trying to make absolutely certain you feel every ounce of how much he wants you.

And you do.

God, you do.

The kiss leaves you dizzy.

Your fingers tug lightly at the hem of his Henley, and he breaks away just long enough to pull it over his head, tossing it aside somewhere near the fire. You barely notice where it lands. Your attention is entirely consumed by him. Warm skin lit gold by firelight. Broad shoulders beneath your fingertips. The soft hitch in his breathing when you touch him openly for the first time.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, amused and rough-voiced all at once.

“You’re very distracting.”

His grin flashes briefly before melting into something softer as he kisses down your throat again. The contrast between his rough stubble and gentle mouth makes you shiver beneath him. Richard notices every reaction instantly. His hands move over you with incredible care, exploring slowly, reverently, pausing whenever your breathing catches. He kisses your shoulders, your collarbones, the sensitive skin just above the lace of your bra while murmuring things against your skin that make heat coil low in your stomach.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers.

Another kiss.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

His fingers trail lightly along your back, soothing and warm.

“So tense all the time,” he murmurs gently. “Let me take care of you a little.”

And somehow those words affect you almost more than the kissing does. Because no one ever has before. You feel treasured beneath his hands. Seen. Desired in a way that has nothing to do with obligation or performance. Every kiss lingers. Every touch asks permission. And slowly, steadily, your body stops bracing for disappointment. You melt instead.

Your hands roam more confidently over him now, nails grazing lightly across his shoulders and down his back, and the sounds he makes in response are enough to send another wave of warmth through you.

Richard lifts his head just enough to look at you again. Firelight dances in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You realize then that you’re smiling. Actually smiling.

“Yeah,” you whisper, almost startled by it. “I really am.”

His expression changes at that, something deeply relieved flickering across his face before he kisses you again with slow, aching affection. The blankets tangle around your legs as you pull him closer, wanting more of his warmth, his touch, his mouth. And through it all, he never stops paying attention to you. To your reactions. To your comfort. To the tiny sounds you make when he kisses just beneath your ear or traces his fingers gently along your spine.

It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

And somewhere in the haze of warmth and firelight and Richard murmuring soft praise against your skin, you finally understand why people write songs and novels and poetry about being loved properly.

Because this tenderness, this wanting, this feeling of being held carefully in someone else’s hands….

Feels a little like coming home.

Richard kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like he has all the time in the world. The fire pops softly beside you, throwing shifting yellow and orange across his bare shoulders as he braces himself carefully above you, one hand stroking lazily along your side beneath the blanket. You can feel the restraint in him still. The way he pauses every few seconds to look at your face. To make sure you’re comfortable. To check that you’re still with him. It makes your chest ache. Because no one has ever been this careful with you before.

His fingers slide to the clasp of your bra, hesitating for just a moment as his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breath catching already.

“Yes.”

The bra slips away slowly, and the second you’re exposed to him, Richard goes very still. Not in disappointment. In awe.

His eyes drag slowly over you with such open admiration that heat floods your face instantly.

“You are…” He exhales softly, almost laughing at himself. “Christ.”

You instinctively move to cover yourself and he catches your wrist gently before you can.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

There’s no demand in it. Just sincerity.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words land somewhere painfully deep inside you because he sounds genuinely stunned by you.

His fingertips trace lightly along your skin like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you at all. Warm palms cupping you carefully, reverently, his expression growing softer every time you react to him. Then he bends his head and kisses you again. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The newly exposed skin of your breasts, his tongue lathing the hard little peak slowly.

The tenderness of it makes your throat tighten.

Your hands roam over him in return, exploring the solid warmth of his chest, the faint dusting of hair there, the muscles beneath softened slightly by age and comfort and real life. But when your palms drift lower, you feel him tense.nJust slightly.

You glance up.

Richard’s suddenly avoiding your eyes a little, mouth twitching with self-conscious humor.

“Bit disappointing after the heroic firelight angles, isn’t it?” he mutters.

Your heart squeezes painfully. Because somehow this man, this infuriatingly attractive man who has occupied entirely too many of your thoughts, is nervous with you. You slide your hands more firmly around his waist instead of away.

“Richard.”

He finally looks at you. And you tell him honestly:

“You’re gorgeous.”

His expression flickers with surprise.

“I mean it,” you whisper, fingertips stroking lightly across his stomach. “Exactly like this.”

He lets out a soft laugh of disbelief.

“You’re biased. You’ve got altitude sickness.”

You smile and tug him back down toward you. “I’ve wanted you even when you were annoying me half to death.”

That finally makes him grin properly.

“Only half?”

“On good days.”

He kisses you again immediately, smiling against your mouth, and the last traces of tension ease out of him beneath your hands. After that, everything slows. Not awkward. Not hesitant.

Intentional.

Clothes are removed piece by piece between lingering kisses and quiet laughter and soft reassurances whispered into warm skin. Every time you tense or try to hide yourself, Richard gently distracts you with another kiss, another touch, another unbearably sincere compliment murmured against your throat until eventually you stop trying to curl inward. Because he looks at you like you’re extraordinary.

And little by little, you start believing him.

He settles between your thighs, firelight flickering over the planes of his back and shoulders while his hands move over you with patient devotion. Nothing rushed. Nothing taken for granted. Every touch feels like a conversation. Every kiss is like a question he genuinely wants answered.

And when his mouth and hands explore you more intimately, the care he takes nearly overwhelms you. He touches you as though you are precious, his fingers dipping between your legs and stroking gently until you relax again. He hums in satisfaction when he encounters dampness, sliding a finger deep inside you with a growl when you whimper desperately. He pays attention to every reaction, every breath, every involuntary movement of your body, adjusting instinctively to what makes you gasp or tremble or clutch at him harder.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly when you shiver beneath him. “That’s it, sweetheart, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

The praise sends heat spiraling through you. You’ve never felt so seen during intimacy before. Never felt like someone was invested in your pleasure instead of merely waiting for their own. Richard seems almost fascinated by every response he draws from you, every breathless sound making him kiss you deeper, touch you more carefully. 

“I want to taste you, will you let me?” He murmurs between kisses, even as his finger strokes inside your body.

You nod, self consciousness warring with need as he pushes the blanket back as he licks a path down your body pausing to suck gently on your nipples until your back arches and you tighten around his finger. He slides down further, his tongue sliding over your belly before you feel his hair against your inner thighs. 

“Open for me, there’s a good girl.” he croons, nudging your legs apart and gazing intently where his finger disappears inside of you. 

He doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t give you a chance to demur, he simply applies himself to the task of pleasing you like he applies himself to driving. With enthusiasm and skill. He moans loudly against you as his tongue licks a slow stripe from his finger to the aching little bud at the apex of your body. You cry out, back arching, legs trembling as he flicks his tongue over you, pushing another finger inside you. Your fingers twist in the blankets as he rapidly works you into a frenzy of pleasure.

And when release finally crashes through you, it leaves you shaking hard enough that he immediately gathers you close, murmuring soft praise against your temple while you cling to him, stunned and breathless.

“There she is,” he whispers warmly. “God, you’re beautiful, that was beautiful.”

You barely have time to recover before he kisses you again, slow and affectionate now, grounding you gently as his hand strokes your back. Then he stills slightly above you. Your eyes meet. And suddenly the air changes again. Not less tender. Just deeper. More intimate somehow.

Richard brushes his knuckles lightly against your cheek. “Still okay?”

You nod immediately, reaching for him without hesitation this time.

“Yes. Please.”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face at the trust in your voice. It's a go ahead, a signal for him to take this all the way. He nods and huffs out a deep breath, kneeling up and gazing down at you spread out in front of him. You watch him, wide eyed and drowsy with desire as he takes himself in hand, positioning himself at the entrance to your body. When he joins himself to you, it’s slow and careful, his forehead pressed against yours while he gives you time to adjust to the stretch, his hands stroking soothingly along your sides.

You gasp softly at the sensation, fullness and warmth and closeness so intense it almost steals your breath. Its different with him, less of an invasion and more of a puzzle piece finally fitting and your body responds in kind, tightening around him, bathing him in liquid heat as he groans. His arms and shoulders shake with the effort of holding himself back until you’re used to the feel of him.

Richard kisses you immediately, grounding you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The words unravel something inside you completely. And as the fire crackles beside you and snow glows pale outside the cabin windows, he makes love to you with the same care he’s shown you all night, slow, attentive, utterly consumed by your reactions. He’s unhurried as he buries himself in you over and over, each thrust eliciting a grunt of satisfaction from him and a little whimper of delight from you. 

The pleasure builds gradually, overwhelming not because of intensity alone but because of the tenderness threaded through every moment. His whispered praise. The way he watches your face. The way he keeps checking on you even when he’s breathless himself. He moves a hand between your bodies, gently brushing his thumb over your clit and leaving you gasping.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, kissing your throat as you writhe. “You take me so well, like you were made for us to do this together.”

He scrapes his thumbnail over you and your body tightens around him in pleasure. He moans loudly, thrusting faster, harder.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as movement and warmth and emotion blur together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

For the first time in your life, you finally understand why sex is so popular. It's not just the physical pleasure, but the intimacy. The feeling of being cherished completely while someone gives themselves to you in return.

Richard buries his face briefly against your neck near the end, breathing raggedly as he holds you close, his voice rough and wrecked when he whispers your name like it means something precious. His body tenses and you can feel the moment he starts to shiver.

“Do you think you can come for me again? I’d very much like to feel that….you tight around me like a vice. I know you want to, don’t you sweetheart…” He cajoles gently, his thumb between your legs rubbing furiously as your body starts to shake.

“Richard!” He swallows his name with his mouth, his tongue filling your mouth as you come, rippling around him as his body jerks and pulses with his own orgasm. He fills you completely, thrusting through every spasm, rolling his hips as though he can never get deep enough inside you. It's unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, so good that you're almost sobbing with pleasure.

And afterward he stays wrapped around you beside the fire, kissing your damp forehead gently while your heartbeat slowly settles against his chest. The fire burns low by the time the trembling finally fades from your limbs.

Outside, the mountain is silent beneath fresh snow, the world muted and distant. Inside the cabin everything feels warm, achingly warm, from the blankets tangled around you to the solid weight of Richard stretched beside you.

No.

Not beside you. Around you.

Because the second you both catch your breath, he gathers you up against him like he can’t bear even an inch of distance.

“There,” he murmurs softly as he wraps another blanket over your shoulders. “Better.”

You laugh weakly, face tucked against his chest. “You’re very bossy all of a sudden.”

“Mm. Occupational hazard.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “Also you’re distractingly naked and I’m trying to stop you freezing to death.”

“You’ve become weirdly competent.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

You smile against his skin.

But the teasing only lasts a moment before he’s touching you again, gentle fingertips tracing idle paths over your back, your shoulder, your waist like he physically cannot stop reassuring himself that you’re really here.

Every few seconds he kisses you too. Your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth. Small, absent gestures full of so much tenderness your chest aches with it.

“That,” he says eventually, voice rough with lingering awe, “was honestly one of the best experiences of my life.”

Heat creeps up your neck instantly. “Richard….”

“No, I’m serious.” He tips your chin up gently until you look at him. Firelight flickers gold across his flushed face and ruined hair. “You’re incredible.”

You duck your head automatically, embarrassed by the intensity of it, but he immediately kisses your forehead again.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “No hiding now.”

The warmth in his voice nearly melts you.

“You made me feel…” He exhales shakily, searching for the words. “God, I don’t even know. Happy. Wanted. Slightly delirious.”

You laugh quietly.

“And very eager to do that again,” he adds without hesitation.

That makes you laugh harder, the sound muffled against his chest.

“I mean it,” he says, grinning now. “Immediately, preferably.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You liked it.”

“I did not say that.”

“You absolutely did. Repeatedly.”

You swat his shoulder weakly and he laughs, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that you go still. Richard notices instantly. His expression softens as his thumb strokes gently across your fingers.

“You okay?”

The concern in his voice gets you all over again. No one has ever checked on you this much. No one has ever seemed so genuinely invested in making sure you feel safe, cared for, wanted.

“Yeah,” you whisper honestly. “I’m more than okay.”

He smiles then, small and genuine and devastatingly warm.

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably around you after that, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional soft brush of his lips against your skin. Your legs remain tangled together beneath the blankets, his hands roaming lazily over your back and hips with quiet affection. You’re drifting toward sleep when he speaks again, voice lower now.

“You know what I keep thinking about?”

“Hm?”

“Taking you home.”

You blink sleepily up at him.

“To the castle?” you tease softly.

He grins against your hair. “Small castle.”

“Of course. Very important distinction.”

“Extremely.”

His fingers comb slowly through your hair as his voice grows quieter, more thoughtful.

“I want to show you everything,” he murmurs. “The gardens. The bedroom. The stupid barn full of half-finished cars.”

You smile faintly.

“I want to make breakfast with you in the mornings.” Another kiss pressed softly to your temple. “Take you swimming in summer.” His hand slides warmly along your side beneath the blankets. “Steal you away to bed whenever possible.”

Your heart squeezes hard enough to hurt.

“Richard…”

“I want to spoil you a bit,” he admits softly, almost shy now. “Treat you like a princess.”

You laugh quietly. “That seems excessive.”

“Nope. I’ve decided.” He kisses your shoulder. “You deserve ridiculous amounts of affection and at least three libraries.”

You bury your face against his chest, smiling helplessly.

“And selfishly,” he continues, voice roughening slightly, “I can’t wait to show you off.”

You glance up. “Show me off?”

“Oh absolutely.” His eyes meet yours in the firelight, warm and earnest and completely serious. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your breath catches.

“And,” he adds more softly, brushing his nose gently against yours, “that I’m very much yours.”

The tenderness of it nearly undoes you completely.

“Body and soul, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Stranded in the Alps Second Person | Enemies to Lovers | You x Richard Hammond | Part One

You don’t know who suggested the bet, probably one of the cameramen, bored and itching for entertainment, but the second Richard Hammond said, “I know exactly where the hotel is,” you should’ve known you were doomed.

"Fine," the director had said, too quickly. "You go with him."

You'd laughed like he was joking. He wasn’t.

"You’ve got the eye, and if there’s anything useful up there for filming, you’ll spot it. Hammond drives, you navigate."

“And what if we don’t find the place?” you’d asked, eyeing the cluster of weather-worn satellite maps on the hood of a car.

“Then you can tell him he’s an idiot all the way back.”

You didn’t even win anything, technically. Just the hollow satisfaction of being right if he was wrong, which, historically, has been often. Now you're about forty minutes into an hour-long drive that already feels like the longest of your life, and you’ve discovered that Richard Hammond drives like he lives: overconfidently, a little too fast, and with the stereo far too loud.

“You don’t actually like this music,” you say over the thudding beat of something that sounds like the soundtrack to a robot having a stroke.

“I do,” he says, cheerfully, eyes on the winding road ahead. “It’s real driving music. It has pace. Energy.”

“It has neurons melting through my ears.”

“That’s just your taste dying a slow death. It’s okay, happens to a lot of scouty type people.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you just condescend to me and insult my career in one breath? I’m impressed. That’s almost efficient.”

He glances at you. Smirks. “I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“Debatable,” you mutter, yanking the aux cable out and instantly silencing the music. “Let me guess, you didn’t bring actual directions either.”

“I know the way.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been up here before. It’s fine.”

“It’s Switzerland, Hammond. There are a thousand identical switchback roads and every one of them leads to a postcard or a ski lodge or an icy death.”

“So dramatic,” he says, but his hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “We’re not lost.”

“Yet.”

You sink back in the passenger seat and unzip your pack. Emergency rations. Thermal gloves. Fold-out map. GPS beacon. A fully charged power bank. Spare batteries. Small first aid kit. Because you actually prepare for things.

“Snacks?” you offer sweetly, holding up a protein bar.

“Already had crisps,” he says, proudly holding up an empty bag of something that definitely didn’t have a nutritional panel.

You stare at him. “That’s not food, that’s seasoned regret.”

“Says the woman eating a brick made of seeds and judgement.”

“I’m beginning to understand why I’m the only one they trust with long-form copy,” you mutter.

He scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I can finish a sentence without my ego tripping over it.”

That earns you a sideways glance, one that lingers just a second too long. You don’t know what it is about him. It’s not that he’s mean. He isn’t. He’s quick and irritating, sure, and cocky in a way that makes you want to punch a wall, but he’s not cruel. He remembers people's names. He helps load gear when he thinks no one’s watching. He bought a grip new boots last month when his split open on location. He cares, in his own insufferable way. But whenever you’re in a room with him, or a car, or a tent, or a dusty back road, your skin just prickles. Like you’re a cat being stroked the wrong way. There’s a tension between you like two wires getting too close.

Maybe it’s because he never backs down from a fight. Maybe it’s because neither do you.

“Still think you know where we’re going?” you ask, after another stretch of silence, one that isn’t quite comfortable.

“Yes,” he replies. Then adds, “Mostly.”

You sigh. “Brilliant. You’re the human equivalent of a shrug.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something smug, when….

tap.

A soft sound against the glass.

You glance up.

Another.

tap tap.

He notices it too, windshield wipers scraping once, unnecessarily.

You both look at each other at the exact same moment.

“Was that….?”

“Snow.”

Neither of you says anything for a beat. It hangs there between you, a shift in the air.

Outside, the sky’s begun to bruise a little darker. The clouds roll thicker, heavier, than they should.

Then another snowflake falls.

And another.

And another.

Richard eases his foot off the gas. The stereo stays off this time.

For once, neither of you has anything to say.

Snow thickens.

It starts as delicate flurries, soft, like ash drifting from a far-off fire. But in ten minutes, it’s a curtain. A full-on whiteout. The road beneath the Defender starts vanishing beneath a blanket of powder. You’re no longer rolling your eyes.

"Please tell me you brought chains," you say, trying to keep your voice flat as you peer out the windshield.

“Course I did,” Hammond mutters, flicking the headlights on full beam. “I’m reckless, not stupid.”

“That’s a debatable line, and you live right on it.”

“Remind me again why you’re here?”

“Because you swore you knew the way,” you snap, twisting in your seat to dig through your pack. “And because you didn’t want to let anyone else win a bet.”

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Probably because he can’t see more than ten feet ahead. You try your phone again. No signal. No surprise. You flip the GPS beacon on next, but the little indicator light stays red, can’t connect.

Your mouth tightens. “We need to radio the crew.”

“Already trying.” He picks up the shortwave set tucked between the seats, fiddles with the dial. “Come on, come on….”

There’s a burst of static, and then:

“....repeat, storm’s hit harder than expected. Anyone on the pass, turn back….if you can. Visibility’s gone to zero. Weather crew’s….” “....completely cocked it….” “....no ploughs until morning….”

The transmission dissolves into white noise.

You look at Richard. “That’s back the way we came.”

He nods slowly. “So forward it is.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the world becomes a blur of white and shadow. The storm gets aggressive. Snow slaps the windshield in horizontal waves, and the wind howls like something living. But he drives like he’s wired into the mountain itself—steady hands, sharp eyes, every subtle twitch of the steering wheel precise. You don’t tell him you’re impressed. You are, but you don’t say it.

Instead, you brace one hand against the door and ask, “Do you always just wing it like this?”

“Not always,” he replies, not looking over. “Only when someone’s watching.”

“Wow,” you say, voice dry. “Did you practice that line, or does it come naturally?”

He almost smiles. Almost. “Come on. A bit of danger makes the day more interesting.”

“I work in logistics and terrain safety. I like my days boring and predictable.”

“And yet here you are,” he murmurs. “In a Defender. With me. In a blizzard.”

You scowl out the window. “I have made several mistakes today.”

Forty Minutes Later

The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it doubles down. The Defender crawls uphill, tyres crunching over unseen obstacles. You’ve stopped bothering to check your GPS every five minutes. It gave up half an hour ago. Neither of you has spoken for ten minutes. Not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because all of it would come out edged and useless. The tension has turned inward. Muted. Like even the arguing is muffled by snow.

Then….

“There.” You sit up straighter, pointing through the fogged glass. “Signpost….left side.”

He squints. “What does it say?”

“It’s in German. Or... Swiss German. Possibly a threat, possibly a hotel.”

“Great.” He turns down the narrow track without hesitation. “Let’s risk death and cultural confusion.”

The wheels crunch up a slope for what feels like ten years. The drive is uneven, climbing steep and winding between snow-choked trees. Finally, just as you’re about to suggest turning back….there it is.

A cabin.

Not a modern one, either….timber logs, shutters drawn, roof heavy with snow. Smoke long gone from the chimney. No lights. No obvious sign of life.

“Could be a ranger outpost,” you say, hopeful. “They sometimes leave them unlocked for emergencies.”

Richard parks. Kills the engine. “Or it’s where the Blair Witch spends her off-seasons.”

You both get out at the same time, boots crunching deep into the snow. The cold is immediate and bone-deep. You pull your coat tight as you trudge toward the cabin’s low front door. He reaches for the handle. It turns.

Unlocked.

Inside, it smells like old timber and forgotten winters. There’s a fireplace to the right, a rusted woodstove in the corner. A kettle. A stack of firewood, miraculously dry. A table. A few battered chairs. A single bed tucked into an alcove. You both take it in. Slowly. Silently.

And then, quietly: “There’s only one bed.”

You turn your head to look at him. “Well spotted, Sherlock.”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking very interested in the fireplace. “Right. Fire. I’ll... sort that.”

You drop your bag near the table and exhale, hard.

“This isn’t ideal,” you mutter.

“No,” he agrees. “But you’ve got your protein bricks. I’ve got crisps. We’ll survive.”

You glance at the door, then at the bed. “We are not sharing that.”

“I didn’t say we were.” He looks smug. “I’m quite small, actually. Very portable. I’ll just curl up in the glove box or something.”

You snort despite yourself.

He kneels by the fireplace, coaxing a flame to life, and for the first time since the snow started, there’s a strange sort of stillness. Not calm, exactly. But something like it.

You unzip your coat, stretch your stiff legs, and say, “Tomorrow, you owe me coffee. And a full explanation of how your navigational instincts betrayed us so thoroughly.”

He glances back over his shoulder, firelight catching the curve of his smirk. “Only if you admit I was right to pack the crisps.”

The fire crackles, casting amber light across the small wooden cabin. You’ve taken your coat off but kept your boots on, because it’s that kind of cold, the kind that settles in your bones, even with the heat licking at the walls. Richard’s crouched near the stove, fiddling with a stubborn latch on the flue like it personally insulted him. You’re pacing. You don’t mean to be, but your body won’t let the frustration go.

“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you mutter.

He doesn’t look up. “Agreed to what? A scenic drive with a world-class presenter and occasional national treasure?”

You spin to face him. “You said you knew the way.”

“And I did! Mostly! How was I supposed to know Switzerland would try to kill us with weather?”

“It’s the Alps, Richard. That’s what they do! You made a stupid bet and dragged me along for the fallout.”

He finally turns around, eyes narrowing. “No one dragged you. You volunteered to supervise. Like always. Miss Always Prepared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stands now, brushing his hands off. “It means you never trust anyone else to get it right. You’re always double-checking. Triple-checking. Watching everyone like we’re idiots.”

You laugh sharply. “Oh, I’m sorry, does it bother you that I like to be prepared? That I make sure people don’t go flying off icy roads or wandering into unstable terrain?”

“It bothers me that you treat the rest of us like we’re reckless children! Just because you’ve got a clipboard and a survival kit doesn’t make you infallible.”

“At least I don’t pretend to know things I don’t!”

“Really? Because you pretend you’re not smug every time you’re right. Like you don’t love it.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re impossible.”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes, and suddenly it feels like too much. Too sharp. Too close.

He gestures wildly toward the door. “Maybe the crew should’ve sent anyone else. Hell, send Jeremy, at least he’d have made it entertaining.”

You take a step forward. “And maybe I would’ve enjoyed being stranded with literally anyone else, someone who doesn’t crash every conversation like it’s a challenge on Top Gear.”

“God, you’re so…” he cuts himself off.

You’re toe-to-toe now, too hot under the collar for how cold the room still is.

“Go on,” you snap. “Say it.”

“Difficult!” he barks. “You are infuriatingly difficult!”

“Better than being a walking midlife crisis in a leather jacket!”

That hangs there.

A breath.

Two.

Too far.

He exhales slowly. You feel it like a shift in pressure.

“Right,” he says, voice quieter. “Fine. That’s... good. Let’s just….” He waves a vague hand, then turns away, dragging one of the chairs near the fire and slumping into it.

You retreat to the other side of the room, jaw clenched, heart pounding. For a long stretch of silence, the only sound is wind battering the windows and your breathing. You start opening cupboards just to do something with your hands.

“Great,” you mutter. “We’re snowed in. We hate each other. And we’re going to starve.”

“Speak for yourself,” Richard says. “I have an open packet of cheese and onion that’s still edible if you ignore the smell.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy rooting through a bottom shelf.

And then….miracle.

“I found tins,” you call out. “Stew. Two of them, as well as some tinned peaches and even beans.”

A pause.

“And...” You pull out a crumpled paper bag. “...Chocolate. Actual Swiss chocolate.”

You hear his chair creak as he stands. “All right, I’m listening.”

There’s cookware too, some cast iron pans, blackened with age, but serviceable. You put the stew on the stove without another word. He helps. Sort of. He finds a wooden spoon, pokes at the stew, makes a face.

“This looks like dog food.”

You look up from breaking the chocolate into squares. “You ate a petrol station sausage roll in Albania and said it had ‘complex flavour.’ Your standards are meaningless.”

He grins, finally. A real one. Not smug, not snide.

“Fair enough.”

It’s quiet again, but not heavy this time. More... tentative.

Eventually, he says, “I didn’t mean what I said. About you being impossible.”

You glance over. “I didn’t mean the leather jacket thing. Much.”

He laughs, and it’s low, surprised. You feel it somewhere annoyingly warm. The stew bubbles gently.

You pass him a plate. “It’s probably fine. As long as we don’t think about the expiration date.”

He sits beside you on the floor by the fire, legs stretched out. “You ever wonder how many bad tinned meals we’ve eaten on location?”

“Enough to qualify for hazard pay.”

You both eat in relative silence. Until….

“Okay,” he says, pointing at you with his spoon. “Serious question. Best comfort film. No wrong answers, but if you say something like Fight Club I will mock you.”

You don’t hesitate. “The Princess Bride.”

He freezes.

Drops his spoon.

“You’re joking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m dead serious.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You? Miss Tactical? You love The Princess Bride?”

“It’s perfect. Sword fights, true love, quotable dialogue. Why is that surprising?”

He throws a hand up. “I just assumed yours would be something grim and realist. Maybe with subtitles.”

“I contain multitudes,” you reply, deadpan. “Besides. ‘As you wish’? That’s cinema.”

“Okay, no, hang on,” he shifts to face you properly, eyes lighting up. “Tell me you know the fencing scene. Like know it.”

“Of course I do.”

You both say at the same time:

“‘I admit it, you are better than I am.’”

“‘Then why are you smiling?’”

You grin, mid-mouthful.

And he says it, almost to himself: “Bloody hell, you’re actually human.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. It’s hard not to.

“Don’t get used to it,” you murmur. “Storm’s not over yet.”

And neither of you says it, but it hangs in the warm air between you, just under the sound of the fire:

Something else isn’t over either. Something’s just beginning.

By the time the stew’s gone and the chocolate has been rationed into bite-sized diplomacy, the fire’s burned hot and steady, casting the cabin in flickering amber light. Outside, the wind howls like it’s looking for someone to blame. The radio on the table crackles now and then, taunting you with bursts of static and broken syllables but never anything useful.

You fiddle with the dial again anyway. “Still dead.”

Richard leans back on his elbows near the fire, legs stretched out. “Well. There goes my plan to phone in a rescue helicopter and be hoisted out like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’d trip halfway into the harness.”

“Gracefully.”

“You’d knock yourself out on the skids.”

“And still look amazing doing it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. You’re not supposed to enjoy this. And yet….

“You really think we’re stuck here all night?” you ask after a minute.

He nods, the joking slipping off like a coat. “It’s a full whiteout. If they can’t reach us, they’re not sending anyone until morning. And we’re already the only idiots high enough up the mountain to qualify as missing in action.”

You glance out the tiny window. Snow lashes at the glass. Thick. Relentless. A world erased.

A long breath leaves your lungs. “All right,” you say. “So we make camp.”

He pushes himself to his feet, joints cracking a bit as he stretches. “You take the bed,” he says, already moving toward the fire. “I’ll take the floor.”

You blink. “You don’t have to….”

“Didn’t say I have to. But you’re the one who’s always going on about survival, so I’m guessing you’ll sleep better if you’re not curled up in a ball of resentment.”

“Only slightly,” you mutter, trying not to smile again.

He strips off his coat, then the heavy wool sweater underneath, tossing both onto the nearby chair. Underneath, he’s wearing a long-sleeved blue Henley, soft and slightly rumpled from the layers. It clings in just the right places, broad shoulders, lean arms, torso tighter than you’d expect for someone who lives on crisps and adrenaline.

And his forearms. You’re not the type to get distracted by forearms. At least you weren’t. But they’re right there, tan and dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, sleeves pushed back to his elbows. Muscled, but not bulky. Like he could hold a steering wheel for twelve straight hours without flinching. You catch yourself staring and snap your head away like you’ve been caught committing a crime.

What the hell is that about?

He glances up from where he’s spreading a blanket by the hearth. “You okay?”

Your stomach jolts.

“Fine!” you squeak, way too quickly. “Totally fine. Yep. Just, tired. Long day. Storm. You know. The usual.”

You all but leap into the bed, dragging the heavy blanket over you like it’s a shield.

You’re definitely not thinking about the way the firelight flickers over his cheekbones, or how his hair’s gone a little wild in the heat, or how his jaw clenches just slightly when he moves, like he’s holding something back.

You’re not thinking about any of it.

Nope.

The bed’s cold, and the mattress is thin, and the pillow smells faintly like woodsmoke and old wool. You burrow down, trying to ignore the way your skin’s still buzzing like it’s caught in the aftershock of looking at him. From the floor, his voice floats up, casual but low.

“So. Favorite Top Gun moment.”

You blink at the ceiling. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Can’t. Too wired. Come on. You once said you loved it.”

You sigh, but it’s warm. “All right. The bar scene. ‘You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin.’ It’s pure chaos.”

“Wrong answer,” he says, smug.

“Oh really?”

He rolls to his side so he can look at you, propped on one elbow. “The dogfight at the end. Classic. ‘I’ll hit the brakes and he’ll fly right by.’ That's cinema.”

“Predictable,” you mutter. “You just like planes and bravado.”

“I like things that move. And blow up. And have big feelings under the surface.”

You glance at him. That last bit lingers in the air like unspoken meaning.

After a moment, you say softly, “Okay. What about Speed?”

He grins. “Don’t even start. It’s a masterpiece. Buses, bombs, Keanu looking confused, it’s everything.”

You can’t help it, you laugh. It bubbles out of you like a spark cracking off the firewood.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Says the woman hiding in a cocoon because she can’t look at me without blushing.”

Your heart stutters.

You look over sharply, but he’s already turned back toward the fire, grinning into the blanket like he didn’t just say that.

Your cheeks go hot. Again.

“I’m not blushing,” you mutter.

“Of course not,” he says lightly. “Must be the altitude.”

You roll over, facing the wall. “Shut up, Hammond.”

“Sweet dreams, Scout.”

And even though the wind still screams outside, and the blizzard rages on, and the room smells faintly of stew and damp wool and something you’re not willing to name, you find yourself smiling into your pillow.

Just a little. Just enough.

You didn’t sleep. Not even a little.

The bed was lumpy, the blanket was thin, and cold seeped into your spine like spite. You’d spent most of the night flipping from one side to the other, trying not to listen to the maddeningly steady sound of Hammond snoring, soft but consistent, like he was cuddled up with a chainsaw on low power. At some point you seriously considered pelting a protein bar at his head. Now, as dawn tries and fails to bleed through the frosted windows, you’re bundled in the blanket and peering out the cabin’s front door. It groans on its hinges as you crack it open.

White. White everywhere.

The Defender is buried in at least two feet of snow, only the curved outline of its roof betraying where it is.

You exhale a thin, unimpressed “Hah.”

Behind you, the man on the floor snuffles, shifts, and groans.

“Oh no,” you mutter, turning around just in time to see him stretch like a cat, languid, satisfied, annoyingly smug about it.

He blinks up at you, hair a tousled mess, voice still thick with sleep. “Morning already?”

You glare. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby on a cloud made of dreams.” He grins. “You?”

“Like a corpse in a walk-in freezer.”

He laughs, pushing himself upright. “Could’ve joined me on the floor. I had a blanket and a vintage copy of Speed playing in my dreams.”

“Shut up, Hammond.”

You stomp over to the shelf, grab a tin of fruit and two protein bars, and toss one at him with deadly precision.

“Breakfast,” you say.

He eyes the bar like it might be poisoned. “This again?”

“‘This,’” you say primly, “is why some people are prepared for the unexpected.”

He opens the fruit tin and makes a face. “We’re sharing this, right? Otherwise I’m going to look like someone who eats peaches in syrup straight from the can.”

“You are someone who eats petrol station sausage rolls. This is an upgrade.”

He smirks. “You know, I’m starting to think you secretly like me.”

You raise a brow. “You’d know if I liked you.”

He goes quiet for a beat, then pops a piece of peach into his mouth with an exaggerated wink. “Someday. You’ll see.”

Before you can answer, the radio crackles, startling both of you.

You dart over to it and fidget with the knob until the voice comes through clear:

“There you are. Finally. You two all right?”

You both lean in.

“This is Scout, we’re fine. Cabin’s solid. Still snowing.”

Richard adds, “Defender’s buried. Radio’s been dead ‘til now.”

The director sighs on the other end. “Yeah, well, you’re not going anywhere. Roads are blocked solid. Ploughs won’t get up that high ‘til at least tomorrow, maybe longer.”

You groan. “How much longer?”

“Storm’s not slowing down. Sit tight. Stay warm. Try not to murder each other.”

You click the radio off and slump into the chair.

Hammond stares at the fire. “Brilliant. More quality time.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“Oh, I’m ecstatic. Trapped in a cabin with a woman who thinks I’m a navigational menace and an emotional plague.”

You hold up your protein bar in a toast. “To mutual loathing.”

He taps his fruit tin to it. “Cheers.”

Later That Day The fire has burned low twice now, and you’ve both taken turns feeding it. But the main stack of firewood is almost gone.

“We’re going to need more,” you say, glancing out the side window.

He joins you. “Didn’t you say there was a stack outside?”

“There is. Behind the cabin. Covered in snow.”

You both stare at the wall like you can will the wood inside.

“Right,” he says finally, clapping his hands. “Let’s be heroes.”

You bundle up like Arctic explorers, scarves, gloves, boots, the works. The second you open the side door, snow comes at you like a slap.

“Oh brilliant,” Hammond grumbles. “It’s up to my bloody thighs.”

“Now imagine being five foot three.” you mutter, lifting your legs through the drifts.

“Wait, are you five three?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He grins. “I always thought you walked like you were taller.”

You glare at him, teeth chattering. “Focus. Firewood. Now.”

You reach the pile around the side of the cabin, half-buried under a sloped wooden lean-to. It’s dry, thank god, but the wind keeps trying to throw you both backward.

“Okay,” you pant. “Grab what you can, I’ll hold the tarp.”

“On it.”

He yanks a few logs loose, loads them into a bucket, grabs another armful, then missteps. It’s not a dramatic fall. It’s more like a sudden thud as he disappears into the snow like a disgruntled gopher.

“Ow. Bloody hell.”

You burst out laughing. Loud and sudden. “Did you just fall straight down? Like a sinkhole?”

“Maybe. Shut up.”

You try to help but the snow shifts under you too, and with a spectacular flail, you go down….

Right on top of him.

There’s a whuff of air and then you’re both tangled in a heap, flat on your backs, helpless with laughter. His arm’s under your shoulders, your knee’s somewhere near his hip, and snow is in your socks, but for a moment you can’t stop laughing.

You gasp between breaths. “This is... this is the stupidest rescue mission I’ve ever done.”

“I’m blaming gravity,” he wheezes. “And hubris.”

Your faces are inches apart, breath steaming in the cold.

Then you realize exactly how close you are.

Your heart skips.

His grin falters, just a fraction, but his hand lingers at your waist for a beat too long before you both remember yourselves.

You scramble upright, brushing snow off your sleeves. “Right. Logs. Inside.”

He coughs. “Yes. Good. Excellent plan.”

You manage to get the load inside between fits of giggling, both of you soaked, exhausted, and windblown.

You collapse near the fire, side by side, steam rising off your clothes.

“That,” you say breathlessly, “was tragic.”

“Speak for yourself. I was magnificent.”

“You got taken down by snow.”

“Snow is treacherous.”

You laugh again, softer this time. And even when the room falls quiet, something else stays warm between you. It’s not just the fire. Not anymore.

The wind has settled into a constant, low howl around the cabin. Night has fallen, though it’s hard to tell with the thick storm still raging beyond the shuttered windows. The fire’s burning steady, casting a soft gold glow across the wooden walls. You’ve hung your wet things near the hearth to dry—boots steaming gently, your coat draped across the back of a chair. The air smells like smoke, snow melt, and the tin of beans simmering on the stove.

“Fine dining,” you say, passing him the dented pot and a bent spoon.

“Poshest place I’ve been all week,” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he digs in.

You both sit cross-legged on the floor, facing the fire, your backs to the one sagging bed like it’s not a topic of silent, ongoing negotiation. Hammond has added three small bags of crisps to the table like a dragon guarding its hoard.

“I call these the side dishes,” he says.

You glance at the labels. “Cheese and onion, prawn cocktail, and... what the hell is ‘steak and ale pie’ flavoured?”

He grins. “A crime against humanity, probably.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, sharing the spoon, trading crisps like currency. It’s not good, but it’s hot, and you’re warm, and for once you’re not sniping. Not quite.

He licks bean sauce from his thumb and says, “Right. What would you actually eat, if you could have anything right now?”

You consider it. “A full roast. Crispy potatoes. Gravy. Buttered green beans. And a Yorkshire pudding the size of my head.”

“Strong start,” he nods. “Me? Spaghetti carbonara. The proper kind. Not the sad version with cream. Real pancetta. Black pepper. The good parmesan.”

You groan dramatically. “You monster. Now I want pasta.”

“We’re not done,” he says, eyes bright. “Dessert?”

You grin. “Sticky toffee pudding. With extra sauce.”

“Wrong,” he says. “The correct answer is: chocolate lava cake, served by a French supermodel who’s legally required to call me ‘Mon Hammond.’”

You snort into your spoon. “You are such a child.”

“Which brings us to tonight’s entertainment,” he says, rising to his feet with a flourish. “The one-man retelling of a classic literary work, as performed by Richard Hammond, cold, hungry, and possibly losing his grip on reality.”

You blink up at him. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he says, striking a pose. “I give you, Pride and Prejudice, as rewritten for modern petrolheads.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. It begins.”

He paces the room like it’s a stage. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large estate must be in want of... a Lamborghini.”

You burst out laughing.

He points at you, deadly serious. “Mr. Darcy, you see, is not brooding, he’s just frustrated because Elizabeth Bennet keeps insulting his car collection. And frankly, her bonnet is dented.”

You’re wheezing.

“Lizzie, meanwhile, is not so much strong-willed as she is deeply irritated that no one appreciates her vintage Land Rover rebuild. She's emotionally closed off because her last boyfriend drove a Vauxhall Corsa.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh. “Stop!”

“I will not.”

He struts dramatically to the stove. “At the pivotal moment, Darcy confesses his undying love by saying, ‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love... your custom exhaust system.’”

You’re actually crying.

“And instead of letters, they exchange MOT reports. Her rejection is harsh but fair, he had aftermarket spoilers and poor tire alignment.”

You fall back onto the floor in a heap of laughter as he bows, one hand to his chest.

“Thank you,” he says grandly. “I’ll be here all night. Literally. Because we’re stuck.”

You manage to sit up, wiping your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He plops back down beside you, his grin softening just a little. “Takes one to laugh at one.”

There’s a silence, not awkward, just... full.

The kind that feels like it wants to go somewhere.

After a beat, he glances sideways at you. “Why do we rub each other the wrong way so much?”

You blink. “That’s a gear change.”

He shrugs. “Been wondering since yesterday. We work together. We’re both, mostly functional. But every time we’re in the same room, it’s like someone lit a fuse.”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. You just, irritate me.”

“How flattering.”

“I mean it. You’re smug. Cocky. You don’t think anything through.”

“And you’re tightly wound, bossy, and allergic to fun.”

“Exactly.”

“But you don’t hate me.”

You glance at him. “No.”

“Right,” he says. “So what if, just a theory, it’s because we secretly want to shag each other?”

The words hang in the air like a grenade. You freeze. His tone was casual. Half a joke. But something in you shifts like the floor’s dropped out from under it. Because oh god. That’s it. You do.

You absolutely, annoyingly, desperately do. And the realization hits too fast, too raw.

Your defense snaps up like a drawbridge. “You’re unbelievable.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You can’t take anything seriously, can you? Not even this. You think everything’s just a joke you can charm your way through.”

He stares at you. “Whoa. That’s not what I….”

“No, you wanted a laugh. You wanted to get a rise out of me and feel clever, and guess what? You did.”

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, standing up. “You can’t even have a conversation without armoring up like we’re going to war.”

“You’re such a childish jackass, Hammond.”

He’s flushed now, eyes hard. “And you’re so scared of being wrong you won’t even admit what’s right in front of you. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching? You think I don’t feel it too?”

You open your mouth, and close it.

He steps closer, not threatening, just there. “When you grow up, and stop pretending this is about anything else, I'll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”

The words are soft. Too soft. And somehow, that makes them hit harder.

You step back like you’ve been slapped. “Go fuck yourself.”

You turn, stomp to the bed, and yank the blanket over your head. The silence that follows is heavier than anything the blizzard outside could bring. But beneath it, your thoughts spin like wheels in snow, and you can’t stop hearing him say it.

When you grow up.

Scratch that itch.

And worse…. You can’t stop thinking about how right he is.

You lie on your side, staring at the uneven planks of the cabin wall, wrapped in a thin blanket that might as well be made of tissue paper. You haven’t said a word in hours. Not that he’s tried to. He’s been quiet too, just the occasional sound of him shifting by the fire, stoking it once or twice, probably too angry or too smug or too right to come near you again. And still, you can’t sleep. Partly because it’s freezing.

But mostly because your mind is a goddamn minefield.

You close your eyes. You try not to think about what he said. You fail. All you can see is his face, too close in the firelight, too smug when he said it, too calm, too certain. Like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.

“I’ll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”

Your stomach does this slow, awful flip and you roll onto your back, teeth clenched. It doesn’t help. Because now you’re thinking about what if. What if you did? What if you kissed him, dragged him down by the collar of that stupid Henley, got a hand in his hair just to shut him up for once? What if you pressed your thighs around him and let that maddening, smirking mouth do its worst?

Your breath hitches. No. No, absolutely not. You roll again, shoving your head under the pillow, trying to smother the thoughts as much as the cold. But you’re shivering now. Hard. Your teeth start chattering, silent at first, then more obvious. You bury deeper, still shaking. Goddamn altitude, thin blankets, and one idiot with smug eyes and excellent arms.

Then….

You hear it. A sigh. Followed by movement. Blanket shifting. Floorboards creaking.

“Don’t,” you mutter before you even see him.

But it's too late. He walks over in long strides and crouches at the side of the bed.

You twist, defensive. “I said don’t.”

He ignores you.

Without a word, he lifts the entire blanket, with you in it, and scoops you up like it’s nothing.

You yelp. “Put me down!”

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” he says, deadpan. “I’m not letting you freeze to death out of sheer stubbornness.”

“I hate you!”

“That’s fine,” he says, carrying you back toward the fire like you’re no heavier than a rucksack. “You can hate me from a safe body temperature.”

“You’re such an ass!”

“Yup.”

He reaches the fire and unceremoniously deposits you on the folded blanket you both used earlier, the one still warm from when he slept on it. Then, without asking, he drops beside you and throws the other blanket over both of you, pulling it snug around your shoulders.

You twist to glare at him.

“You can’t just drag me over here.”

“I didn’t drag,” he says, stretching out behind you. “I lifted. It was very dignified.”

You mutter every curse you know under your breath. He’s lying so close his chest brushes your back every time he breathes. You hold yourself rigid, arms crossed.

“I’m still angry,” you snap.

“Of course you are.”

“And you’re smug.”

“Always.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Nope.”

“This means nothing.”

“Sure.”

Silence falls. The heat starts to bleed back into your skin. Not from the fire, but from him. From the warmth of his chest at your spine. The steady, infuriating calm of him. The smell of woodsmoke and soap and that faint citrus he always seems to carry like a cologne he never admits to wearing. You hate how solid he feels behind you. You hate how right it feels not to be cold anymore. And you hate that your breathing is starting to match his. He doesn’t say another word,  just stays there, warm and steady and maddeningly quiet.

Your body betrays you first, shivers easing, tension draining from your jaw, from your shoulders, from your clenched fists. Then your mind follows. Not all the way. Just enough. You’re still angry. Still flustered. Still wildly, violently aware of him. But the heat settles in your bones, and your eyes slip closed.And just before sleep takes you, you feel it. A tiny, infuriatingly gentle press of his hand, resting lightly at your waist. Not a grab. Not a move.Just... there.

Like he’s grounding you.

You don’t react. But your last conscious thought before the dark takes you is:

God help me, I’m not going to survive this trip.

The radio crackles before you’re even fully awake. You blink, disoriented, the sound dragging you slowly out of the deepest, warmest sleep you’ve had in days. For a moment, you can’t move, can't figure out why you’re so warm. Then it hits you, warm breath against your neck, a heavy arm slung across your middle, a knee between yours.

Oh.

Oh no.

You tense. So does the arm. Behind you, Richard shifts with a quiet, almost strangled sound. He pulls his face back from where it had been, resting against your hair, apparently, and mutters into your shoulder, “…fuck.”

“Yeah,” you say hoarsely, not moving. “Pretty much.”

The radio crackles again, clearer this time:

“Scout? Hammond? Come in. You two still alive up there?”

You both scramble apart like teenagers caught in the act, limbs untangling in awkward, flailing silence. You sit up, yanking the blanket around your shoulders, and shoot him a look. He’s rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding the radio with the other.

“Still alive,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “More or less.”

“Good. Snowplough’s heading your way tomorrow. Should be there by midday. Storm’s moved on. Sun’s out. Sit tight and enjoy the view.”

He sets the radio down. Neither of you speaks for a minute. Outside, the world is blindingly white. The sun streams through the frost-glazed window, throwing dappled light across the floor, your tangled blankets, and the outline of two people who very clearly forgot how to stay on their own sides of things. You look at him. He looks at you.

“Morning,” he offers, dry as toast.

You sigh. “Morning.”

Breakfast is half a tin of peaches eaten straight from the can, no banter, no jabs. You sit on the floor facing the fire, knees almost touching, but not quite. The silence isn’t tense. It’s just… fragile.

You find your bag, pull out the bar of soap, and clear your throat. “I’m going to, um, wash a bit.”

He lifts his hands. “By all means. I’ll stare directly into the fire like a Victorian chaperone.”

You roll your eyes but say nothing, turning your back and kneeling beside the pot of melted snowwater still warming on the stove. The sponge bath is quick and practical, but the fire makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness. You’re hyper-aware of the shifting silence behind you, the way he isn’t looking, and also how much of you he could see if he did.

When you’re done and dressed in slightly less damp clothes, you murmur, “Okay. Your turn.”

He nods once, then grabs the soap and shrugs off his shirt without a word. You turn away quickly. Too quickly. Because even the glimpse of his bare back and shoulders, golden in the firelight, is enough to make your brain short-circuit like faulty wiring. You stare out the window as he washes, efficient, quiet, and blessedly not talking. You hear the water slosh, the occasional splash, the rustle of fabric. You keep your gaze locked on the snowdrifts outside, telling yourself you are not wondering what he looks like wet and shirtless.

Nope.

Not even a little.

You both settle again by the fire once he’s done, him freshly dressed, hair damp, and still shirtless because he’s letting it dry by the hearth. You sit in silence for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he speaks.

“You know,” he says, picking at the edge of his crisps packet, “I hate to admit this, but if it weren’t for your magic bag of tricks and twenty-seven emergency rations, we might’ve turned feral.”

You glance at him. “Feral?”

He nods. “Fully Lord of the Flies. I’d be trying to eat my own boot leather. You’d be sharpening a stick.”

You huff a small laugh. “I did consider smothering you with a pillow.”

“See? Savagery.”

You smile into the peach tin. “You’re welcome.”

He grins. “And I’ll say this, your protein bars taste like damp cardboard, but they did stop me from dying. So I suppose I’m grateful.”

You eye his crisps. “Your cheese and onion ones weren’t completely revolting.”

He presses a hand to his chest, dramatically. “You like my crisps.”

“I said not revolting. That’s not the same as like.”

“Oh, I’ll take it.” He leans back against the chair, eyes closed. “Progress.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him. Because something has shifted, the sharp edges have softened. The storm outside is over, but something else is just beginning to stir inside you. Warmth. A strange kind of peace. Or maybe just the quiet knowing that when you wake up tangled around someone and you don’t feel angry anymore, it means you’re in more trouble than you thought.

The second night settles over the cabin more gently than the first.

The storm has passed, leaving behind an eerie sort of silence outside—thick snow blanketing the mountain, moonlight turning everything silver-blue beyond the frosted windows. The wind still whispers through the trees, but softly now. Tired. Inside, the fire crackles steadily. And you and Richard… exist around each other.

Not arguing. Not exactly talking, either. Just there.

He spends most of the afternoon fiddling with the radio, poking uselessly at the Defender once he shovels enough snow to reach it, and pacing the cabin like a bored border collie. You try reading your book by the fire, knees tucked beneath a blanket, but the words keep sliding off the page. Not because the book’s bad.

Because every few minutes you become painfully aware of him. Of the sound of his boots on the wooden floorboards. The absent little hums he makes while thinking. The way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s frustrated. And, annoyingly, how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. You hate it. You don’t want this.

You don’t want to be attracted to Richard Hammond. You don’t want to think about kissing him, or what his hands would feel like if they stopped being accidentally warm and started being intentionally warm. You especially don’t want to remember waking up tangled together that morning. Unfortunately, your brain seems committed to treason. You turn a page in Persuasion for the third time without reading a word.

Across the room, Richard groans dramatically.

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “I’m going to start talking to the chairs.”

“Try not to lose the argument,” you reply absently.

He points at you. “See? This is why you’re my favourite hostage.”

You snort despite yourself. A few more minutes pass.

Then….

“What are you reading anyway?”

You glance up. “Persuasion.”

He stops pacing immediately. “Jane Austen?”

“Yes.”

He squints at the cover like it personally offended him. “Voluntarily?”

You lower the book slowly. “Careful.”

“I’m just saying,” he says, wandering closer, “I’ve never understood the obsession. Nothing explodes. Everyone just stares emotionally across drawing rooms for three hundred pages.”

“That’s because men don’t understand subtext.”

“Oh, here we go.”

You sit up straighter, pointing the book at him. “Jane Austen is about tension.”

“So are car crashes.”

“Not the same kind!”

He drops into the chair opposite you, grinning. “Explain it to me then. Why do women love Austen so much?”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Are you actually asking, or are you gearing up to mock me?”

“Bit of both.”

You sigh theatrically and tuck a leg beneath you. “Fine. Austen’s not really about romance.”

“It literally is.”

“No, it’s about people. About how they misunderstand each other. Pride and ego and timing and all the things people don’t say.”

He props his chin on his fist. “You say plenty.”

“I say what I mean.”

“That is categorically untrue.”

You ignore him. “And the romance matters because the men in those books actually listen. They pay attention. They learn the women as people.”

Richard blinks. “That’s your big fantasy? Being perceived?”

“Yes,” you say flatly. “Shocking, I know.”

He considers that for a moment.

Then: “Still sounds exhausting. Everyone yearning at each other while eating soup.”

You laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, “you continue explaining Austen to me instead of throwing the book at my head.”

“That option remains available.”

He points at the cover again. “So what happens in Persuasion?”

You eye him suspiciously. “You genuinely want to know?”

“I’m trapped in a cabin with no television. I’ll listen to literally anything.”

You hesitate, then start talking despite yourself.

“There’s this woman, Anne Elliot. Years earlier she falls in love with this naval officer, Wentworth, but her family convinces her not to marry him because he’s poor and not important enough.”

Richard makes a face. “Rude.”

“Years later he comes back successful and rich, but he’s still hurt that she rejected him.”

“Ah,” he says. “So now they’re both emotionally constipated.”

You point at him. “Exactly.”

“I do understand Austen.”

“They spend the entire book circling each other and pretending they don’t still love each other.”

He tilts his head slightly. “That sounds horrible.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It sounds like torture.”

You shrug. “That’s because men think romance is buying flowers and revving engines.”

“That is romance.”

“It absolutely is not.”

He grins lazily at you from across the fire. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“You think tension is more interesting than honesty.”

The words land harder than they should. You look down at the book.

“Maybe honesty’s overrated,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he says softly. “Or maybe it’s just terrifying.”

The fire pops between you. Outside, snow slides softly from the roof, and for a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Richard suddenly leans forward, eyes bright with mischief again.

“Read me some.”

You blink. “What?”

“Go on. Out loud.”

“You were mocking it thirty seconds ago.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says solemnly. “Plus your reading voice is weirdly soothing.”

You stare at him. Then, despite every instinct telling you not to encourage him, you open the book, and as the fire burns low and the mountain settles around you, you begin to read while Richard Hammond listens with his chin propped on his hand, watching you more than the pages.

Morning Mischief and Stolen Moments

The morning sun crept up slowly and gold across the Desert, painting the horizon in amber and rose. The camp began to stir—zips unzipping, kettles rattling, boots thudding against the red earth.

Hammond blinked awake to a freckled shoulder in his view and a tangle of limbs under the sleeping bag. For one glorious second, he simply stayed still. Her hair was mussed, her mouth parted in sleep, and her hand was still loosely wrapped around his.

He smiled. Then groaned softly as he rolled onto his back.

Outside, Clarkson’s voice boomed through the silence.

“I told you something was dodgy with her tent, thing folded like a cheap sun lounger in a wind tunnel.”

May replied, dry as toast. “She probably tripped over a deadly wombat and fled.”

Hammond snorted. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, already trying to sit up without disturbing her too much.

Too late.

She stirred beside him, blinking awake, then groaning. “Do they ever shut up?”

“Only when unconscious. Or eating.”

She stretched, and the sight nearly short-circuited his brain. “We should get out there before they start speculating about spider sex.”

He blinked. “Is… is that a thing?”

“Probably. This is Australia.”

They dressed quickly, her in borrowed trousers retrieved from the depths of his duffel bag and him slipping on his usual shirt, hair wild, grin unstoppable.

They stepped out into the full light of morning together, blinking against the brightness, and straight into the expectant stares of Clarkson and May, who stood beside their utes with steaming mugs in hand.

Clarkson raised a brow. “Well, well, look who survived the night.”

May sipped his tea. “Could’ve sworn the tent exploded. Or combusted.”

“Not a tent,” Clarkson said cheerfully. “Clearly a clever diversion. Strategic tent collapse to gain entry into someone else’s lodgings.”

She smirked. “Maybe I just fancied a change of scenery.”

Clarkson grinned. “Did the change come with room service and cuddles?”

She took a sip of Hammond’s coffee without asking. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

May blinked. “Wait, are you confirming?”

“I’m confirming that I didn’t get bitten by a spider or murdered by a ghost dingo. Anything else is above your pay grade.”

Hammond, for his part, tried to hide his smugness by busying himself with the camp stove. “Anyone want bacon?” he called.

“Already got the sizzle,” Clarkson muttered.

The day was long, hot, and full of the usual filming chaos: reshoots, gear adjustments, squinting at the sun to get the angle just right. The three hosts filmed more scenic driving shots while the crew juggled drone coverage and wiped sweat off their brows.

And Richard, well, Richard had one eye on the shot list and the other on her.

He found reasons to be near her. A shared water bottle. An excuse to check notes over her shoulder. A moment where he pointed out a rusted windmill on the horizon that led to her smiling up at him, shielding her eyes from the glare, and his hand lingered on her waist just a beat longer than necessary.

Once, while someone adjusted Clarkson’s mic pack, Hammond caught her alone between takes, ducked behind the back end of his ute with a wink, and pulled her in by the belt loops.

“Richard,” she whispered, laughing.

“Shh,” he murmured, “we’ve got forty-five seconds before someone starts complaining about batteries.”

Then his mouth was on hers, fast and breathless and full of everything they hadn’t said aloud. She grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him back like she’d been waiting all morning. One of her boots scuffed the dirt as she leaned in, and he groaned when her fingers slipped up under the hem of his T-shirt.

A radio crackled nearby.

“Ten seconds, people! Where’s Hammond?!”

She pulled away first, breath catching. “You’re going to be the reason they have to do a continuity reshoot.”

“I regret nothing.”

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Go.”

He jogged away, cheeks flushed, hair windblown, a dazed grin on his face.

And as the cameras rolled again, drones in the air, Clarkson blustering about something idiotic,Hammond drove forward with the faint taste of her still on his lips and the distinct, undeniable feeling that something between them had well and truly started.

Something worth holding onto.

Desert Fire and Smouldering Looks

By nightfall, the Gibson Desert had gone soft and velvet-dark, the sky full of stars so bright it looked like the gods had spilled glitter across the firmament. The crew had finished eating, and the fire had burned low. Most of them had peeled away one by one, disappearing into tents and rigs, until only a few stragglers remained.

Clarkson was first to go, complaining about sand in his socks and mosquitoes with a vendetta. May followed not long after, murmuring something about editing notes and stretching his back.

That left just the two of them, her and Hammond, alone by the fire.

Her tent had been reassembled earlier in the day, inspected by three camera assistants and declared “100% spider-free, probably.” It sat upright now across the dusty clearing, its guy ropes taut, its flap fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Hammond hadn't asked. He’d wanted to. All day, the question had danced on the tip of his tongue like something fragile.

Now, as she sat across from him, toasting the soles of her boots near the fire, he could barely meet her eye. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was a 49-year-old man with a wealth of experience, a smattering of dignity, and the emotional maturity of a Labrador puppy when it came to this woman.

She poked at the fire with a stick. “Quiet tonight,” she said, voice soft.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Almost nice.”

She glanced toward her tent. So did he.

More silence.

He cleared his throat. “So… did you, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Did you want to sleep in your own tent tonight?”

She looked over at him slowly, brow raised, but there was something vulnerable in the set of her mouth. “Did you want me to?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean….yes. I mean….only if you want to.”

She let out a soft laugh, relieved and just a bit shy. “I was trying to figure out how to ask without sounding presumptuous.”

He chuckled, staring into the fire. “We’re idiots.”

“Completely.”

Another beat. She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her trousers. “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s be idiots in your tent.”

He followed her, heart hammering a little harder than it should for a man whose knees complained this much. When they ducked inside, the familiar closeness wrapped around them again, warm fabric, faint firelight filtering through the canvas, the scent of her skin already woven into everything.

This time, there was no awkward shuffle. No polite distance.

As soon as the flap zipped closed behind them, she turned, pressed him gently back into the wall of the tent, and kissed him like she’d been thinking about it since breakfast.

He melted into it, hands finding her hips, her waist, the base of her spine. She was fire in his arms, mouth hot and open, tongue slick and teasing. He groaned when she tugged his shirt up, sliding warm palms beneath it to splay across his stomach and chest.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered between kisses.

She grinned against his mouth. “You’d die smiling.”

He lifted her slightly, hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around him easily. They sank together onto the open sleeping bag, tangled and breathless, his hand in her hair, her lips trailing down his throat.

“I swear to God,” he rasped, dragging his mouth across her collarbone, “the second we get to a real bed, I’m going to make you lose your mind.”

She arched against him. “Promises, promises.”

“I mean it,” he growled. “Slow. Proper. Everything you deserve.”

Her breath hitched, fingers curling into the fabric at his back. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

She rolled them suddenly, straddling him, hair falling forward like a curtain as she looked down at him in the dim light.

“Then stop thinking.”

He grinned, already reaching for her again. “Yes, ma’am.”

The Dark Between Them 

The desert was still, the fire burned down to nothing, and the stars above were so bright they looked close enough to touch. Richard lay flat on his back inside his tent, arms behind his head, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his skin. The sleeping bag was open above them, a patchwork of shared warmth, and she was beside him, curled on her side, facing him in the dark. 

He could feel the rise and fall of her breath. The shared quiet. The occasional rustle of fabric as they shifted, cautiously, awkwardly. It wasn’t exactly roomy. 

He wasn’t going to sleep. That was obvious now. His mind was racing. His body was… not helping. And so, after a long silence, he spoke. Voice low. Honest. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Mm?” she murmured. 

He could hear the smile even though he couldn’t see it. 

“Do you ever feel… like you missed the window?” 

There was a pause. 

“For what?” 

He took a breath. 

“For all of it. You know. Love. Settling down. Having someone who actually stays.” 

She was quiet again. Not in the dismissive way, just listening. Waiting. 

“I turned forty-nine last month,” he went on, words coming slower now. “And I looked in the mirror the other day and realized my neck’s gone weird. And my hair’s grey. And I’ve got this…” he gestured toward his stomach, “....thing happening around the middle. I used to get by on being cute, funny, scrappy. Now I’m just, Richard from the past.” 

“Hey,” she said softly. “That’s not true.”

 “I don’t know.” He laughed quietly. “I think I’ve been on my own for so long now that I’ve convinced myself I’m not meant for it. Relationship stuff. Women used to flirt with me. Now they just want me to sign their copy of Top Gear Adventures and move along.” 

He exhaled. 

“Maybe I’m just getting old.” 

The silence stretched. Then.

“Okay, wow,” she said at last. “You really don’t see it, do you?” 

“See what?” 

“You.” 

Another rustle of fabric as she sat up a little, leaning on her elbow, looking down at him in the dark. 

“I mean, God, Richard, have you met you?”

 “Frequently, yes. I’m exhausting.” 

She gave a soft laugh. 

“You’re smart. Kind. Ridiculously funny. You’ve got these big warm eyes that always look like you’re about to get away with something. That stupid cheeky grin. Those strong arms and broad chest, yes, broad, don’t argue with me, and you’ve got this laugh that makes everyone else laugh, even when they’re trying to be cross.” 

He blinked up at her, heart thudding now for an entirely different reason. 

“And your voice,” she went on, quieter. “It’s not rough or cocky like some men try to be. It’s gentle. Lifting. Like you could talk someone out of a panic attack without even trying.” 

He swallowed. Her words wrapped around his ribs, warm and weightless. 

“I don’t know what happened in your past,” she said, “but if any woman left that, she was an idiot.” 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then she added, 

“And you’re not the only one with doubts, by the way.” 

He turned his head slightly. 

“You?” 

She gave a breath of wry laughter. 

“Please. Do you know how many men I’ve met who want the benefits without the friends? Or worse, treat me like I’m a novelty until I say something smart, or funny, or too much?” 

She laid back down beside him, not quite touching. 

“Sometimes I think maybe I’ve missed the window, too. Maybe I’m too opinionated. Too capable. Too everything.” 

Richard looked at her in the dark. His hand moved before he could stop it, reaching across the narrow space to find hers. 

“You’re not too anything,” he said. 

Their fingers laced together. She shifted closer. Just enough that her forehead brushed his shoulder. He breathed her in, sun and dust and something sweet. Her skin was warm, bare leg brushing his beneath the sleeping bag. And now… now, he was deeply aware of how close they were. Her hip against his. Her breath in his ear. His body stirred. Predictably. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Well. Brilliant. Now I’ve got a stiff groin and feelings.” 

She huffed a little laugh, lifting her head. 

“You okay?” 

“No.” 

He could hear the smile in her voice. 

“Is that… because of me?” 

“Entirely.” 

“Is it… significant?” 

He groaned. 

“You know what, I liked you better when you were terrified of spiders.” 

She snorted, nuzzling into his shoulder again. 

“Don’t worry. I think it’s charming.” 

“You would.” 

A pause. Then, gently: 

“Want some help?” 

His heart stopped. “…What?” 

“I mean. If you’re suffering, it’s only polite.” 

He turned his head to look at her, breath catching. 

“You can’t just say things like that.” 

“I think I can,” she whispered. 

He was trembling when she shifted, rolling slightly onto her side, backing up into him with a slow, teasing grind that made his entire body light up. 

“You’re really,” he hissed as she brushed against him again, “not playing fair.” 

“Never claimed to.” 

Her hand slipped down, under the covers. Found him. He sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering closed. Even through the cotton of his boxers her touch was enough to make him feel like a teenage boy about to come in his pants at the first encounter with a pretty girl.

“Oh, bloody hell…” 

“Very significant,” she murmured, kissing just below his jaw. “Noted.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, already on the edge as she stroked him with deliberate, devastating slowness. 

His hand found her hip, then her thigh, dragging up until his fingers met warm, soft skin and the unmistakable slickness of her arousal. 

He pushed aside her underwear as her hand slid beneath his shorts, gripping him in a way that made him tremble and jerk. He dragged a finger through her center, taking note of the way she sighed and arched toward him.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, you’re, God, you’re ready, aren’t you?” 

“I’ve been ready,” she whispered, gasping when his fingers slipped inside her. 

“Oh my sweet girl…” he groaned, his thumb finding her nub, two fingers pumping easily in and out of her.”

He heard her muffled, desperate whimper as she shifted to face him, leg draped over his hip, mouth finding his. Her tight fist stroked him with just enough pressure and speed to have him thrusting into her hand, panting.

They moved together under the covers, stifled moans and desperate sighs muffled by mouths and throats and shared skin. He whispered filth and praise in equal measure into her ear… how good she felt, how soft she was, how much he wanted her in every possible way once they had a proper bed. 

Her hand never faltered. Nor did his. 

She came first, breath catching as she bit his shoulder, gasping his name like a secret. They way she tightened and rippled around his fingers a promise of things to come. He couldn't wait to feel her do that around his cock. He followed seconds later, choking on a groan as her name spilled from his lips. They lay tangled and boneless in the aftermath, breath slowing, hearts pounding. 

The Spider and the Storm 

Hammond lay flat on his back in his tent, the flimsy canvas roof glowing faintly from the moon outside. Somewhere nearby, a lizard made a weird ticking noise. Probably plotting. Australia was full of things that clicked and slithered and wanted you dead. 

He, however, had a far more immediate and internal crisis. It wasn’t the heat, or the bumpy ground, or Clarkson’s godawful snoring from the next tent. It was her. He groaned softly and turned over, then turned back again, because it didn’t matter what direction he faced, his brain was doing pirouettes around her smile, her eyes, the way her hips moved when she stomped through sand in cargo trousers and steel-toe boots. 

He’d tried everything. Counting sheep. Repeating facts about utes in his head. Whispering “you’re too old for this, Hammond” over and over like a mantra. 

None of it worked. Because now, alone, in the dark, she was all over his brain like a fever dream. 

He imagined her slipping into his tent, brushing the flap aside with a sheepish smile. In this fantasy, she was barefoot, wearing one of his T-shirts, maybe the slightly too-small one that would cling to her curves and hit mid-thigh. Her hair was loose, eyes soft with whatever glimmer she never directed at him in real life. 

In the dream, she whispered, “You’re not asleep, are you?” and crawled toward him like some desert siren. He could feel the heat of her thighs pressing against his, the brush of her hand along his abdomen, her voice low and teasing: “Still feral, Hamster?” 

His breath hitched. The mental image sharpened—her fingers slipping under his waistband, her weight sinking over his hips, her body curved like temptation itself. He let his hand drift lower. Just a bit. Just to take the edge off…..

THWAP. Rustle. Thud. And then, “OH BLOODY HELL!!!” 

A distinctly feminine shriek shattered the still night. 

Hammond’s blood went cold. He fumbled upright, nearly clocking himself on the tent pole. 

“Torch, torch, where the f…?” 

His hands found it in the dark, flicked it on, and burst out through the flap, bare feet pounding red dirt as his heart raced. The desert looked like something from a war film, shadows stretching across rust-colored ground, everything unnaturally still except one very chaotic, very collapsed pile of canvas. 

And in the center of it.. Oh. Hell. 

There she stood, surrounded by a tangle of ropes and poles, turning in frantic circles with her hands patting her arms, her hair sticking out wildly, and— 

She was wearing almost nothing. A loose white tank top, no bra, and black panties that clung like sin and made him think unthinkable things. Her legs were bare. Her shoulders bare. Her feet were dusty. She looked like she’d just staggered out of a fever dream, and he was the one who needed mouth-to-mouth. 

“Oh God, oh God, it was on my face, my actual face, Hammond, and now it’s gone and I’m not going back in there, I refuse!” 

He hurried toward her. 

“Are you okay? What happened?” 

“Spider. Huge. It was like a cross between a tarantula and a divorce lawyer.” 

He swept the torchlight over the wreckage. The tent looked like a crushed soufflé. No visible spider, but Australia’s wildlife was designed by Satan himself, so that wasn’t comforting. 

“You sure it didn’t bite you?” 

“No, it was just... dancing on me. And then everything collapsed when I freaked out. And now my pants are under there with the spider and I’m barefoot and it probably laid eggs in my hair.” 

“You’re alright,” he said, gently putting a hand on her arm. Her skin was warm and tense under his palm. 

“I am not alright,” she snapped, eyes huge. “I am half-naked in a murder desert, my tent is wrecked, and I’m pretty sure something just hissed at me.” 

He swallowed hard. Her tank top clung to her curves, caught in the light from his torch like something from a commercial for really irresponsible life choices. She folded her arms, which only made it worse. 

“Alright,” he said, trying to focus on her face. “You’re staying in my tent.” 

She blinked. 

“What?” 

“I’ve got room, you’ve got... nothing. Unless you want to sleep standing up or risk round two with the spider.” 

She glanced back at the wreckage, shuddered, and then nodded. 

“Okay. But I’m not going back in there. Not even for trousers. It’s his now. He can have it.” 

He offered a lopsided smile. 

“Fair. But you might want something... slightly more substantial.” 

She looked down, seemed to register for the first time that she was nearly naked, and flushed. 

“Crap.” 

“Here,” he said quickly. “You can borrow a T-shirt.” 

He ducked into his tent ahead of her, flinging everything to one side, silently thanking the gods of lust and pest control. He yanked his duffel open, pulled out a soft black tee, and turned to hand it through the flap. 

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking it. “I’ll change out here. For obvious reasons.” 

He nodded. 

“Right. Totally. Respectful and... not at all pervy reasons.” 

When she climbed in moments later, oversized shirt hanging to mid-thigh and the smell of her suddenly everywhere, Hammond realized something awful. There was one bedroll. And it was his. He sat in the far corner, legs crossed, pretending to rifle through a gear pouch like it held ancient secrets and not just protein bars and a cracked compass. 

She looked around the tiny space. “So, uh… are you sure there’s room?” 

“Definitely,” he lied. 

“We can share the sleeping bag,” she said casually, already crawling in. “It’s fine. We’re grown-ups. You’re not going to bite me.” 

Hammond wasn’t so sure. Not with her thigh pressed up against his leg and the edge of her shirt, his shirt, riding high on her hip as she tucked the flap shut. He slid in beside her, careful not to brush too much. The bag was narrow. They were... not. 

She exhaled, settling in, her hair tickling his shoulder. 

“Still feral?” she whispered. 

He turned his face toward her, smiling in spite of himself. “Always.” 

Night in the Gibson

The last two days had been a blur of dust, laughter, and escalating absurdity. Pick-up shots, drone footage, arguments over tire pressure. At one point, they’d accidentally driven straight into a loose mob of kangaroos.

Technically, it had been Clarkson’s fault. He’d ignored every warning about cutting across the open flats “for a shortcut” and ended up startling a dozen greys, who bounded across the track in all directions.

What followed could only be described as… chaotic ballet.

Three utes weaving wildly to avoid tail-punching wildlife, the drone camera catching it all in glorious 4K, and her voice over the walkie shrieking, “Do not hit a bloody kangaroo, I swear to God I’ll leave you all out here!”

When they’d finally pulled over, sweaty, rattled, and dislodged from their seats, she was doubled over laughing.

“Actual menace,” she wheezed at Clarkson. “You’re like a feral toddler in a hire car.”

Clarkson took it in stride, still trying to blame May.

Hammond, for his part, had laughed too, but mostly because she was laughing. The sound of it, bright and unguarded, was better than any soundtrack.

Now, the sun was long gone. Dinner was done. The fire burned low, and the beer cans were thinning out. Someone was telling a story about a production assistant who once mistook a nest of green ants for a patch of moss and ended up with welts across both legs.

Hammond laughed along with the others, but his eyes drifted past the firelight.

There she was, wandering off again, bottle of water in hand, heading toward a small rise just beyond the camp.

He watched for a moment, then quietly stood and followed.

She didn’t startle when he approached, just glanced sideways and nodded toward the stars above.

“Don’t get views like this in London, I bet.” she murmured.

“Not unless you count plane lights,” he replied, settling beside her. “Or the occasional emergency helicopter.”

They stood in companionable silence for a bit, the Milky Way stretching above them like spilled sugar.

He glanced at her profile in the dark, soft, thoughtful, the tip of her nose just catching the starlight.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said suddenly.

She turned, curious. “Yeah?”

“Top three favorite things. Go.”

Her brow furrowed. “What, like… in the whole world?”

“Yep. Gut answer. No overthinking.”

“That’s evil,” she said, but her smile said she liked it.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “You made me herd kangaroos today. This is karma.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Okay. Number one… chocolate.”

He gave her a look. “Safe.”

“Reliable,” she corrected. “You can trust chocolate.”

He nodded, conceding. “Continue.”

“Two… David Bowie. Especially early Bowie. Hunky Dory, Ziggy. I don’t trust people who don’t like Bowie.”

“That feels targeted,” he said.

She smirked. “Is it?”

He gave a guilty shrug.

“Number three…” Her voice softened. “History. Big picture stuff. Ancient maps. Stories passed down. The kind of things that make you feel like the world was here before you and will keep spinning after.”

He blinked, unexpectedly struck.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s… properly poetic.”

She looked embarrassed and shrugged. “I told you not to make me overthink it.”

“No, I like it,” he said, quiet now. “It suits you.”

She glanced at him, then nudged his elbow lightly. “Your turn.”

“Easy,” he said. “Cars. Music—progressive rock mostly, the weird time signature stuff. And…”

He hesitated, then finished: “The Lake District. Hiking when it’s just started raining and you can smell the moss on the wind.”

She looked surprised by that one. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m an oddly specific guy,” he said. “I think it’s the only place where I ever really stop thinking.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s rare. Finding somewhere that stills you.”

He glanced at her. “Do you have one?”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Used to be here, when I was younger. This part of the country. Before it became a job. When it was just… space.”

They stood there, the silence between them no longer awkward, just full.

After a while, she spoke again. “What about after this? When we wrap filming. What’s next for you?”

He shrugged, but there was a wry twist to his mouth. “Back to the UK. Maybe more voiceovers. Maybe another special if the old boys agree. I don’t know.”

She looked at him. “You sound thrilled.”

“I’m not complaining,” he said. “I just...” He hesitated. “Lately I keep wondering if there’s something else. Something next that’s not just the same again.”

She nodded slowly. “Have you ever thought about doing something different?”

“Terrifies me,” he admitted. “But yeah. Sometimes.”

They locked eyes for a moment.

“I think you could,” she said softly. “If you wanted to.”

He looked at her a beat too long. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right reason.”

She smiled at that, but it was gentler than usual. A little unsure. “Well. Let me know if you find it.”

“I might already be looking at it.”

Her smile faltered, just briefly, like her breath caught.

Then she looked away. “We should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” he said, still watching her. “Big day tomorrow.”

They turned back toward camp, walking slowly, dust kicking up around their boots.

Behind them, the stars burned on, ancient and quiet.

Ahead of them, something delicate was unfolding. A possibility. A shift.