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The way he says it—casual and matter-of-fact—makes my breath catch.

"Also," I say, trying to regain some academic ground, "I'm supposed to check in with my thesis advisor today. Professor Harrison wants a progress report by two o'clock."

"Fine. We'll use the sat phone when we break for lunch." He sits up and starts getting dressed with the same efficient movements I watched the night before. "But that's the only exception. Everything else, you follow my lead."

"Understood."

Famous last words.

Two hours later, I'm standing in a clearing about a mile from his cabin, staring at a pile of branches and sticks and trying to figure out how they're supposed to turn into shelter.

"This is impossible," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. "The structural integrity is completely compromised by the irregular angles."

"The what now?" Cade looks up from where he's demonstrating knot techniques I apparently can't master.

"The angles are all wrong. Basic physics says this won't hold." I gesture at my sad attempt at a frame. "The load-bearing capacity is insufficient for the distributed weight, and the connection points are fundamentally unstable."

"Jesus Christ." He stands up and walks over to examine my work. "You're building a shelter, not designing a skyscraper."

"But the principles are the same. If you don't account for structural stress and load distribution—"

"Marley."

"What?"

"Shut up and build the fucking shelter."

I blink at him. "That's not very constructive feedback."

"You want constructive feedback? Stop overthinking every goddamn stick and just follow the instructions I gave you twenty minutes ago."

"But your instructions don't account for the fact that this branch is clearly too weak to support—"

"Are you questioning me?"

Something in his tone makes me pause. "I'm trying to understand the engineering behind—"

"That's questioning me." He moves closer, and I automatically back up until I hit a tree. "What did I tell you about questioning me in the wilderness?"

"You said not to, but that was for when safety is paramount. This is obviously a teaching moment where discussion would be beneficial—"

"Strike two."

"Strike two? This isn't baseball, it's an academic exercise in applied survival methodology—"

"And there goes strike three." His hands settle on either side of my head, caging me against the tree. "Looks like someone needs a reminder about following instructions."

My mouth goes dry. "A reminder?"

"Remember what I told you in the cabin? About doing exactly what I say when I say it because it's dangerous out here?"

I nod.

"And what did you just spend the last hour doing?"

"Learning survival techniques?"

"Try again."