Page 5 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
"Man of many words."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Did you need something specific?"
"Just making conversation. It's what normal humans do when sharing space."
"I'm working." He moves to the desk, effectively dismissing me as he opens a logbook.
I bite back a retort, reminding myself that I’m anuninvited guest in his fortress of solitude. Instead, I retrieve my camera from its waterproof case, half-expecting water damage or tech tragedy, but the display blinks to life like a loyal dog. Miraculously intact.
I scroll through the shots from yesterday, thumbing past blurred feathers and hopeful failures until I find them—eagles mid-flight, wings stretched, sunlight streaking across the curve of their spines. Not the shot. Not the holy grail. But enough to justify being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a man who communicates mostly in monosyllables and meaningful grunts.
Behind me, the scrape of a chair and the scratch of Caleb’s pen mark the beginning of a long, quiet morning. He’s settled at the small desk near the window, filling out some report by hand—of course, he writes by hand—and radiating silent intensity like it’s a form of heat.
The hours drift.
Outside, the storm has moved on, but the wind lingers—angry and aimless, rushing through the trees like it’s still hunting for something to tear apart. The cabin groans beneath the pressure, wooden beams shifting with age and memory, each creak a reminder of just how alone we are out here. Just how exposed.
Inside, it’s warm. Oppressively warm. Or maybe that’s just me.
The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that stretch across the room, but my focus isn’t on the flames. It’s on him.
I try not to notice the way the sleeves of his thermal hug his biceps, how the fabric strains just enough to hint at the strength beneath. Try not to get caught staring when he leans forward, forearms flexing, veins standing out in stark relief against sun-browned skin. His brows draw together in concentration, andhis jaw ticks every time he’s thinking hard, like even his face refuses to relax until the problem is solved.
Spoiler alert: I fail. Spectacularly.
I pretend to scroll through photos, flipping through them far too fast to process anything. I jot down a note or two that mean nothing, just to give my hands something to do. But mostly, I watch him.
Out of the corner of my eye.
Through my lashes.
Sometimes, when he’s turned away.
I drink him in fully, openly, hungrily.
There’s a quiet control to the way he moves. Like his body has learned to conserve energy, to never waste a single breath or motion unless it serves a purpose. When he does move—God help me—it’s with the kind of deliberate power that makes my stomach dip and my thighs press tight.
Every flex, every shift, is a reminder of the kind of strength he’s holding in check.
And I can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason he loses that control.
I’ve got a full-blown mental highlight reel playing on loop—Caleb’s Greatest Hits before noon. Bending to pick up a pen, I’m 99% sure I dropped just to watch him do it again: good God, that back. Broad and muscled, shifting beneath flannel like some kind of wilderness sin.
Stretching one arm overhead, completely unaware—or worse, entirely aware—of the way his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of taut, sun-warmed skin and the sharp lines of his hip. A crime against fabric, honestly. Should be illegal.
Pushing back from the table with a low, absent sigh, chest rising slow and deep like he’s drawing breath straight from the earth itself. Reverent. Dangerous. Enough to make my thighs clench with the ache of uninvited thoughts I can’t unthink.
I make two rounds of coffee just to give myself something else to focus on—burn my tongue both times. Then dig into my emergency protein bar stash, not because I’m hungry, but because I need something—anything—to keep my mouth occupied that isn’t him.
Still, the silence isn’t as tense as it was yesterday. It’s changed. Warmer around the edges. Like the air between us is charged with something low and humming, waiting to strike.
Not quite comfortable. But not cold, either. It feels stretched. Pulled taut by something unspoken. Like anticipation.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Probably just me.
But then he glances up.
