Page 29 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
A small wooden box tucked on a shelf near the fireplace. It’s too beautiful to belong here—carved with delicate patterns that don’t match the rest of the cabin’s rugged utility.
It looks… loved.
Kept.
I reach for it without thinking, fingertips grazing the polished lid.
It slips before I even know I’ve moved it wrong.
Crack!
The sound is too sharp, too final. Like a bone snapping. Or a promise breaking.
I freeze. The box is on the floor, the lid split clean off, a burst of tiny glass shards glittering like fallen stars across the rug.
Caleb’s across the room in the blink of an eye—no words, just motion, fast and sharp. He drops to his knees and gathers the broken pieces with trembling hands.
I take a step forward?—
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, heat surging into my face. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Don’t touch it.” His voice lashes out like a whip. Cold. Controlled.
Meant to sting.
I freeze again. Hands up, stepping back like I’m the one who’s broken.
He cradles a shattered ornament in his palm—what looks like a bird, or maybe it used to be. The curve of a wing, a fragment of a beak. It’s beautiful, even in ruin.
“It was an accident,” I say, softer now. “Caleb… I didn’t know?—”
“You shouldn’t have been touching it.” His voice stays low, but the fury in it vibrates the air. “This isn’t a tourist attraction. These aren’t souvenirs.”
“I know that.” I swallow, guilt twisting sharply in my stomach. “I—I just—It stood out. I was curious. I’ll pay to fix it.”
“Some things can’t be fixed.” He stands abruptly, chest rising with ragged restraint, the broken box still clutched in one hand. His knuckles have gone bloodless.
It’s not about the ornament. That much is obvious.
The pain in his voice is the kind that’s settled deep in bone and refuses to heal. My apology stalls in mythroat, useless in the face of whatever memory I just callously cracked open like the box on the floor.
“Who was she?” The question slips out—quiet, but sharp enough to cut.
His head jerks up. His eyes lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“What?”
“The redhead,” I say, gently. “In the photo by your desk. She’s the one who gave you the box, isn’t she?”
The silence that follows isn’t just tense. It’s suffocating.
I half-expect him to throw me out into the rain.
But he doesn’t. His face just… folds inward. Shutters down. It’s painful to watch.
Something fragile presses behind his eyes.
“Kim.” The name scrapes out of him like it costs something. “She was our team’s meteorologist. Weather specialist.”
