The wind cuts sharper the higher you climb, your boots crunching against the gravel trail as mist curls low over Scafell Pike. Your thighs ache, your lungs burn, and your fingers are stiff despite the gloves, but you welcome the pain. It keeps you in your body. Keeps you from floating too far into your head.

You hear a familiar voice behind you, a little out of breath but catching up fast.

“Oi,” Chris says, jogging a few paces to fall in beside you. “You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums. Doesn’t push. Just walks in silence for a bit. The others are further up the hill, laughter echoing faintly on the wind — George and Arthur racing each other to the next bend and the producers in front and behind the group.

Chris matches your pace like he’s got nowhere else to be. Then, without warning, he says, “You know I’ve been talking to everyone this trip. Mental health stuff.”

You glance at him, wary. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He smiles faintly. “Figured you had. You’re hard to read sometimes, you know.”

You look away, watching your boots scuff loose stone. “It’s easier that way.”

“I know,” he says. And then, softer: “But I’m asking anyway. One honest thing. Doesn’t have to be deep. Just… how you’ve really been feeling.”

The wind gusts and you tighten your coat around you. You could brush it off. You could joke. But he’s looking at you like he won’t laugh, like you’re safe.