Page 11 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
“This looks amazing,” I breathe, already half-moaning as I inhale the steam curling off the plate. “I wasn’t expecting gourmet mountain cuisine.”
“It’s just food.” His voice is low, unbothered. But there’s a flicker—barely there—in the corners of his mouth. Pride, betrayed for just a second.
I take the first bite, and my brain short-circuits. Garlic and ginger sing at the edges. Something smoky curls at the back of my tongue. A hit of spice lingers low, like a secret. My eyes flutter closed, pleasure sinking deep.
“This is…” I shake my head, reverent. “Culinary foreplay. Honestly. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
He pauses, just long enough to register. “My crew. Hotshots. We rotated cooking duties atbase camp.”
Hotshots.
The word lands like a match tossed on dry brush. Firefighters. Elite ones. Suddenly the quiet control, the lethal grace, the intensity that clings to him like smoke—they all make sense.
I don’t push. Not yet.
“That explains the practical skills,” I say lightly, chasing the thought of him in fire gear, soot-streaked and adrenaline-laced, hauling people from the flames.
He just nods. Eyes down. Focused on his food like it’s safer than me.
Then I blow it.
“I saw a newspaper article earlier.” The words tumble out like spilled wine—too fast, impossible to clean up. “About your crew. Mountain fire. You saved?—”
“You went through my things?”
The shift is instant. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just—still. The kind of still that makes your skin tighten, because something primal has entered the room. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move. Just freezes, like a blade held breath-close.
“No—well, not exactly,” I fumble, heart thudding. “The chest under your desk was open. The clipping was right there. I didn’t dig. I was just curious…”
His eyes finally lift. Green and unreadable. “Curiosity doesn’t justify invading my privacy.”
The air goes razor thin. His voice isn’t loud, but it hums with something restrained and dangerous. Not rage. Worse. Disappointment.
Silence stretches. Long enough for my breath to feel loud in my own ears. My skin prickles.
“You’re right.” My voice is soft. Steady. “I’m sorry.” I set my fork down, the clink of metal on ceramic sharper than it should be. “I shouldn’t have looked. Not without permission.”
And I mean it. Every word. But I don’t look away. Not this time.
Because beneath the apology, something else pulses—connection. Delicate. Frayed at the edges. And still holding.
He studies me for a long moment, jaw tight, lips parted just slightly like the words are there, lodged somewhere between memory and restraint. Muscles tick in his cheek. He looks like a man walking barefoot across broken glass—aware of every sharp edge, every misstep waiting to cut.
Then, finally, a breath. A soft exhale that sounds like surrender.
“It was the Carson Ridge Fire. 2018.” His voice is rough, stripped bare. “We got twelve hikers out before the fire jumped the containment line.”
I watch him in profile, the cut of his jaw in the low cabin light, the flicker of something old and raw in his eyes.
“Twelve hikers rescued. Three firefighters injured. One fatality.” My voice is quiet, careful. But it still lands like a match in dry brush.
His jaw flexes, and for a second, I want to bite my tongue. Take it back. Let him keep the silence he’s made into armor.
“You were the one who went back in, weren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just lets the moment stretch until I feel it hum beneath my skin. Then he nods once. Slow. Heavy.
I should stop. I know I should stop. Let him have this boundary. Let him change the subject.
