“Good instincts.”

The silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s loaded. Thick with everything that didn’t happen last night. Everything that almost did.

I still feel the ghost of his hand brushing mine when we changed that bandage. The heat of his body near mine. The way he looked at me. The way I swear he almost kissed me.

I should say something. Break the tension.

Instead, I wipe down the bar in slow, useless circles.

Gage clears his throat. “I should get back?—”

“Don’t,” I say.

He stops.

I don’t even know why I say it. Except I do.

I don’t want him to go.

But when I can’t give him a good reason why he should stay, he offers to wait around until it’s time to drive me home.

Which he does. Nursing a water the whole time. When Hank finally gives me the okay to leave, Gage opens the door for me.

We don’t say much on the drive. Not as we wind up the path to the rescue. And not when he follows me inside the cabin.

He flips on the light switch. He looks at me, and for a second—just a second—it feels like the ground shifts.

“You don’t have to play the hero all the time,” I say.

“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t move.

The light catches his cheek. His eyes. That scar. All of him so damn steady.

“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.

His brow furrows. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “More gruffness. Less heart.”

He steps toward me. Slowly. Watching me the whole time.

We’re close now. Too close.

He’s right there. His fingers graze mine again—intentionally this time. My breath catches. His thumb brushes my knuckles, and I swear to God, the whole cabin fades away.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

But neither of us moves.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek, and the touch is so soft I have to close my eyes.

When I open them, his face is inches from mine.

My gaze drops to his lips. He rubs them together. Just once.

It’s not a kiss yet. But it’s so close my entire body tenses in anticipation.