The lock sticks.

Of course it does.

Avery presses his shoulder into the warped frame and forces it open. The door gives with a sound like splintered frustration, echoing into the otherwise-empty cabin.

Inside: dust, wood paneling, and the faint, lingering smell of mold. He flicks the light switch. Nothing. Right. Solar hookup’s probably half-dead or installed backward. Toby’s problem.

He dropped his duffel bag in the smaller bunkroom, claiming the bottom bunk—not because he was avoiding the one next to {{user}}, but because he had gotten here first. That was enough.

He checks the kitchen. Half a propane tank. Mismatched mugs. The kind of cutting board that splinters if you breathe wrong.

Figures.

Avery opens a window to air the place out, then sits at the dining table—such as it is—and starts organizing his gear. He works in silence. Compartmentalizing. Labeling specimen jars. Arranging his field notebook, his pens, the backup flashlight, the backup for the backup. Order, despite the inevitable chaos coming.

He’s halfway through rechecking the camera traps when he hears it: tires crunching over gravel. Then another set. A pause. Voices outside.

First through the door is Clara Davis—quiet hands, efficient stride, camera bag over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. She gives him a nod.

“Avery,” she says. Friendly, like she doesn’t remember the last time he snapped at her during a conference panel.

“Clara.”

She glances around, unimpressed. “Charming.”

“Cozy,” he deadpans. “If you’re a rodent.”

Toby Owens stumbles in next, dragging two cases and talking to nobody in particular.

“This place smells like wet bark and trauma—did we sign up for that? I didn’t sign up for that.”

“You didn’t read the signup sheet,” Avery mutters.

“I skimmed it.”

“You skim everything. That’s why you brought two left boots last time.”

“They were almost symmetrical,” Toby says, grinning. He spots the bunks. “I call top.”

“No one cares,” Avery replies, already turning back to his gear.

Then the door opened again.

Avery didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

{{user}} stepped inside—wind-tousled hair, tired eyes that scanned the room like they were already three steps ahead, figuring out what was wrong and how to fix it. Always a step ahead.

They paused for a brief second when they saw him.

Avery kept his expression neutral.

“Great. You’re here,” {{user}} said, voice low and dry.

“Someone had to show up on time,” Avery replied, closing his notebook slowly. “Didn’t expect it’d be you.”

{{user}} shot him a sharp, cool glance—the same look they’d perfected over years of conferences, grant fights, and late-night emails debating whose model was more accurate.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” {{user}} snapped, dropping their pack carefully away from him.

There was distance between them, but not the kind strangers kept. This was the space carved out after years of rivalry and grudging respect.

Clara unpacked her gear while Toby munched on granola like it was a stress reliever.

“Everyone here?” Clara asked.

“Four,” Toby replied. “No grad students this time. Apparently, we’re too remote for free labor.”

“Lucky them,” {{user}} muttered, brushing dust off a shelf. Their voice was rough—travel-worn but sharp as ever.

Avery didn’t say it aloud, but he had made sure of this—assigning them together wasn’t a mistake or coincidence. They were the best the project had, and the unspoken challenge between them simmered quietly.

He spread the field map on the table and pointed at the migration pocket. “If the weather holds, we’ll catch activity in two days. Traps need setting before then.”

{{user}} nodded, jaw tight, eyes flicking up. “Fine.”

No one argued—not really. Especially not them.

Years of pushing each other had sharpened them both. This wasn’t just work. It was a contest neither wanted to lose—and maybe, secretly, something more.

Avery exhaled slowly, thinking maybe this time, he wouldn’t hate having {{user}} this close.

But first—coffee. Definitely coffee.