Page 32 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
“Bullshit.”
The word snaps through the air—sharp, jagged, louder than I meant it. But I don’t take it back. I won’t.
“You wanted it. I wanted it. So what’s the real problem, Caleb? Because it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the only damn thing in this cabin that made sense.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like I’m a wildfire and he’s trying not to fan the flames.
“The problem is we’re stuck in close quarters. Cut off from reality. Running on adrenaline and isolation and goddamn ghost stories. That kind of pressure warps things. Makes people do things they wouldn’t normally do.”
He says it like he’s reading from a manual. Like he’s trying to convince himself.
My pulse thrums like a warning drum. I step closer. The space he created? I take it back.
“Is that what you’re clinging to?” My voice drops, low and steady. “That it was the storm? The cold? Some survival instinct? Tell yourself whatever you want—but don’t you dare lie to me.”
“It’s not a lie.” Grit lines his voice now. “It’s the truth.”
“No,” I whisper, stepping closer. “It’s fear.”
His jaw flexes. I see it. That little tick at the corner where he clenches too hard. He doesn’t deny it.
“You felt something. You’re just scared of it. That kiss—it wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t proximity or bad timing or some kind of emotional mirage. It was real. And it scared the hell out of you.”
He stares at me like I’m a fault line beneath his feet, and he doesn’t know whether to step forward or run.
“You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? You think you’ve cornered the damn market on grief?” My voice cracks, the words scraping raw. “You think shutting down makes you strong? It doesn’t. It makes you a coward.”
The air pulls taut. He’s not breathing. Neither am I.
Then, finally—his voice, low and ragged, just above a whisper.
“I’m not afraid of kissing you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” I press, barely holding myself together. “Me? Or what it wouldmean if it wasn’t just a kiss?”
His gaze drops. Not to retreat. But because the answer’s already written behind his eyes—and it’s tearing him apart.
He looks away like he’s trying to protect me. Or maybe trying to protect himself. From me. From what this is. From what it could be.
And that? That hurts more than if he’d shoved me out the damn door.
Because if he yelled, if he snapped, if he let something—anything—break through that iron self-control, at least I’d know where we stand. But this?
This is a slow collapse. A quiet retreat. And retreat always comes before abandonment.
My chest tightens. That sharp, breath-stealing ache creeps in. The one I know too well. The one that screams he’s leaving before he’s even gone.
“You are scared.” I don’t move back. I move closer. Right into his space. Right where it hurts. “Not of me. Of what I represent. Connection. Possibility. Something that might crack open the walls you’ve bricked yourself behind.”
His jaw ticks again, tighter this time. He grits his teeth. “Two days, and you think you’ve figured me out?”
“I know enough.” My voice trembles. But I don’t back off. “You’re kind even when you pretend not to be. You’d rather freeze than let someone else be cold. You care about every fox den and broken pine on this mountain like they’re yours to protect. And you kissed me like you’ve been starving for something real. Like I was your first breath after years underwater.”
“Stop.” The word grates out of him like it hurts to say. Like it costs too much.
“No.”
He steps back.
