Page 23 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
This time, I just breathe in the quiet. And let it settle.
"How did your father die?" he asks.
"Heart attack. He was on a shoot in Wyoming. By the time I got there..." I swallowhard. "Photography was our connection. After my parents divorced, weekends with Dad meant hiking with cameras, chasing wildlife."
"That's why you pushed on despite the storm."
"Yeah." I smile ruefully. "Dad always said the best shots come when other photographers have packed up and gone home."
Another shiver runs through me, more pronounced this time. Without comment, Caleb shifts closer, hesitantly placing his arm around my shoulders. The gesture is awkward, tentative, as though he's forgotten how human contact works. But his body radiates heat, and I find myself leaning into his warmth.
"Your turn." I glance up at him, suddenly aware of our proximity, the weight of his arm, the subtle scent of pine and rain that clings to him. "Why did you leave firefighting?"
His body tenses, but he doesn't withdraw. "Long story."
"We've got time." I gesture to the storm outside. "Unless you have somewhere pressing to be."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, there and gone. He's silent for so long, I think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, as if sharing a confidence he's held close for years.
"Sometimes you can do everything right and still lose."
The weight of unsaid words hangs between us. I wait, sensing there's more.
“I quit after Carson Ridge.” His voice is low, flat—but his jaw flexes like the memory still draws blood.
I go still. Understanding slams into me like a falling tree.
“Caleb…”
“Like I said. Long story.”
His gaze cuts away, evasive. But his arm doesn’t move.
Doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t shut down.
And that—God. That matters.
It feels like the first faultline in the fortress he’s built around himself. A hairline crack in all that control. He let me in, just a sliver, and it feels more intimate than anything he could’ve said out loud.
My throat closes around the ache. The gratitude. The overwhelming need to press my palm against his chest and ask—Who hurt you? Who left you bleeding and decided you had to survive alone?
But I don’t.
Because this? Him offering without demand, without defense?
That’s sacred ground. And I won’t stomp through it just because I’m desperate for more.
So I lean into him. Rest my head against his shoulder.
Say nothing.
His arm tightens.
Just a little. A fraction.
But I feel it.
Feel it like a live current sparking beneath my skin, like a promise without words. My body goes hot and sharp and acutely aware—of the rise and fall of his chest, the scent of pine and storm and him, the heavy press of his thigh against mine.
