Page 10 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
He scribbles in a weather log or field journal or whatever rugged survivalists write in, posture relaxed, boots planted wide, concentration etched into every hard line of his face. I scroll through old photos, pretending to work, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every shift of his body, every creak of the chair beneath his weight.
The fire crackles low.
The storm howls against the eaves.
And the cabin… it changes.
Not romantic. No.
But warm.
Settled.
Like this place—this strange, isolated world we’ve stumbled into—has its own gravity.
God help me, I’m starting to like the quiet.
As dusk crawls across the cabin and settles in like a blanket, my stomach betrays me loudly. The growl ricochets off the log walls, embarrassing and impossible to ignore. I glance toward the kitchenette. Then at Caleb.
He hasn’t moved from his desk. Still scribbling away like he’s single-handedly solving climate change, war, and the meaning of life with nothing but a dull pencil and sheer willpower. That brow is furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line, and those maddening hands—those hands—grip the pen with quiet command.
I think about asking if he’s hungry.Maybe offer to cook something. Though my idea of cooking mostly involves microwave buttons and an emotional commitment to crackers, cheese, and shame. But before I can embarrass myself further, he shifts.
Chair scrapes back. He stands.
And stretches.
Arms up. Shirt rides up. Muscles ripple under flannel, the hem lifting just enough to flash skin—tan, tight, sinfully cut. My brain short-circuits. All thoughts deleted. Replaced by a mental slideshow titled Things I Could Do to That Torso.
“Hungry?” he asks, like he didn’t just unleash an erotic apocalypse on my nervous system.
“Starving.” My answer’s too quick, too high, like I’m auditioning for a game show instead of trying not to combust.
He moves to the fridge with that same quiet efficiency that’s starting to undo me, one steady footfall at a time. Pulls out a handful of vegetables, a container of cooked rice, a carton of eggs. His movements are exact, practiced. There’s a plan forming in his head, and I watch it play out in real time.
He grabs a chef’s knife and starts chopping like it’s second nature. Confident. Fluid. Precise. I can’t help but wonder what else those hands have learned to master.
“Need an assistant chef?” I offer, inching closer, helpless against the magnetic pull of his space.
“No.”
One word. No glance. Just the firm brush-off of a man who knows how to work alone.
Onions hit the hot pan, followed by garlic, oil, and something spicy that bites at the back of my throat and settles lower—warm and wicked. The scent wraps around me like temptation in steam form.
“Almost done,” he adds, tossing chopped peppers like he’s conducting an orchestra made of heat and hunger.
Of course, he’s almost done. Of course, he cooks like this. Methodical. Silent. Focused. Like he’s locked in a staring contest with the skillet and refuses to blink until he’s won.
I lean back against the counter, useless and captivated, trying to look anywhere but at his forearms flexing with each flick of the wrist.
But I fail. Spectacularly.
And when he reaches for the soy sauce, tilts the pan, and gives it a controlled shake that sends the scent of toasted sesame and pure masculine competence into the air—I swear to God, I nearly moan.
Someone save me. Or don’t. Honestly, I’m fine dying like this.
When he sets the plate in front of me a few minutes later, I nearly weep. It’s just vegetables and rice, but it smells like five-star comfort food. Like warmth and muscle memory and hands that build and nourish in equal measure. The scent alone could melt resolve.
