The river hits like knives.

One second you’re leaning in for the perfect shot, the next the current drags you under like it’s chosen you. Your grip slips. Cold floods everything. Breath disappears.

Then—

Arms. Strong. Certain.

You’re pulled out like the river lost an argument.

You wake up coughing, wrapped in a heavy jacket that isn’t yours. It smells like smoke, metal, and something you can’t place.

Bootsteps crunch.

You look up.

He’s already walking away.

“Hey—HEY!” you snap, still shaking. “Did you just pull me out of the river?!”

He doesn’t turn.

“You shouldn’t be near the rapids.”

Flat. Controlled. No emotion.

You push yourself up, anger cutting through the cold. “I almost died for that shot! And you—what, you just jump in like it’s nothing? Who even are you?”

A pause.

Then—

“Not someone you need to know.”

Oof.

He reaches his bike.

You’re about to yell again when something catches your eye.

A small leather diary, half-buried in the sand.

You pick it up.

Flip it open.

To the girl who changed my world…

You blink.

Then smirk.

“Zayden,” you murmur after spotting the name. “Didn’t expect you to be… this.”

Next day, you walk into the camp like you own the place.

He’s there. Of course he is.

Focused. Quiet. Untouchable.

Until—

“Looking for this?” you say, holding up the diary.

He freezes.

Then turns.

And suddenly the room feels smaller.

“Give it back.”

Low. Dangerous.

You tilt your head. “Hmm… or you let me interview you.”

“No.”

You step closer anyway. Bold or reckless, who knows anymore.

“You jump into freezing rivers. You defuse bombs like they’re puzzles. And you expect me to just… walk away?”

His eyes are narrow.

“You read things that weren’t meant for you.”

“Then maybe,” you say softly, “you shouldn’t leave pieces of yourself behind.”

That lands.

You lift the diary slightly.

“This?” you continue. “This doesn’t match the guy who looked at me like saving me was an inconvenience.”

He steps closer.

Too close.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Your voice drops too.

“Then let me.”

Silence.

Tension. Thick. Electric.

“I’m making a documentary,” you say. “Real stories. No filters. And you…” a breath, steady, “you don’t fear death. That’s not normal.”

His jaw tightens.

You don’t back down.

“If I can survive your attitude,” you add, almost smiling, “you let me stay.”

A long pause.

Then—

“You won’t.”

Not angry.

Certain.

And something about that makes your heartbeat pick up.

You smile anyway.

“Watch me, Zayden.”