Page 13 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
It’s hard to concentrate when I can feel him across the table—every shift of muscle, every breath. There’s a low, steady tension under his calm. A restraint I’m starting to suspect doesn’t stop at the surface.
And damn it, I want to find out just how far it goes.
We finish eating in silence, but it’s not awkward anymore. It’s thick. Taut. Like the whole cabin is holding its breath with us, waiting forthe spark to hit the wire.
I move to gather the plates, but he pushes his chair back at the same time. “I’ve got it.”
“No way. You cooked. I’ll clean.” I bump him aside with my hip, an accidental move that feels anything but accidental. His hand comes to my lower back—light, fleeting, maddeningly gentle. But that touch? It lands like a strike of lightning. Just a brush of rough warmth and I forget how to function.
But it’s enough. The contact disappears, but the heat stays.
Enough to make me hyperaware of the space between us. Of how warm he is. Of the subtle scent that clings to him—pine and smoke and something that’s just him.
We fall into rhythm at the sink, passing plates and utensils, our fingers brushing again and again. Each accidental contact ratchets the tension higher. Every touch is like a spark we both pretend not to notice.
But we notice.
He hands me a pot. His fingers close around mine—just for a heartbeat too long. My breath stumbles. My gaze snaps to his. His eyes drop to my mouth, linger for half a second, and lift again. His jaw tightens like he’s biting back a decision he doesn’t trust himself to make.
Say something. Do something. Just breathe.
I want to ask what he’s thinking. I want to throw the dish towel and kiss him senseless. I do neither.
Instead, I dry the damn pot and pretend my pulse isn’t trying to escape through my throat and I’m not seconds from combusting.
We finish the dishes in silence after that. But it’s a different kind of quiet. Not empty. Full.
Full of the truth he let slip. Full of all the things we’re not saying. Full of heat and guilt and whatever this thing is sparking between us.
By the time we finish, I’m flushedand breathless, like we ran a marathon instead of doing dishes. He moves away first, breaking the moment like it cost him something. Maybe it did.
Night falls early in the mountains, darkness pressing against the windows. Rain continues its steady assault, the earlier downpour settling into a consistent patter that promises to continue through the night.
When he moves away to stoke the fire again, I let myself look. Really look. At the man who walks through fire and still carries the burn. At the strength, the solitude, and the surprising softness under all that gruff.
I pretend not to watch the flex of his back as he adds logs to the stove. The room fills with warmth, but I’m already burning.
The silence stretches again, deeper now, layered with everything we didn’t say and all the things I’m suddenly aching to.
The domestic scene feels strangely intimate—the two of us enclosed in this small space, surrounded by the vastness of wilderness.
"I'll take the floor tonight." He breaks the silence, nodding toward the back room. "You keep the bed."
And just like that, the spell shatters.
"That's ridiculous. This is your home. I should take the floor."
"You're injured." He gestures to my knee, the bandage visible through the tear in my pants.
"It's just a scrape. Besides, the floor's hard. Cold."
"All the more reason you shouldn't sleep on it." The line is delivered with such quiet finality, it’s not worth arguing.
Still, I try.
"At least alternate nights." I cross my arms, matching his stubborn stance.
"No."
