Page 57 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
"Harper—"
The radio interrupts again. A mercy or a curse, I’m not sure. I back away, retreating to the window seat where twilight presses up against the glass. Caleb’s voice turns official again as he speaks to Dispatch, but Ibarely register the words.
Outside, the forest gives way to darkness. Every tree swallowed by shadow. And with the night comes the cold, creeping in beneath the seams of the cabin—and beneath my skin.
It’s the slow, inevitable unraveling of something that never got a chance to begin.
When the radio finally goes quiet, Caleb moves to the kitchenette, his silhouette tall and backlit in the amber glow of a single lamp.
"Hungry?"
"Not really."
Not for food. Not when I’m already choking on goodbye.
"Should eat something anyway."
He pulls together a quiet meal—bread, cheese, smoked trout. The last of what we have. We sit across from each other, knees almost touching under the narrow table. Every motion is deliberate. Every glance held too long, or not at all.
Passing the water pitcher. Reaching for the salt. My fingers brush his, and the contact lingers longer than it should. Static, heat, tension. And then nothing. We keep going like it didn’t happen.
Afterward, I help with the dishes. Close quarters. Barely enough room to turn without touching. But we don’t. Somehow, we manage not to.
The silence between us now feels like its own kind of storm.
“I should double-check my gear,” I say, just to break it. Just to run.
But when I look up, Caleb's already watching me. And that look—raw, unreadable, carved from whatever we’ve been trying not to say—stops me cold.
"Harper."
My name lands like an anchor, stopping me halfway to the bedroom. I turn. Caleb stands braced against the counter,arms tense and knuckles white, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming after me.
"I don't want our last night to be like this."
His voice is low. Raw. Honest in a way that slices clean through every wall I’ve managed to hold in place.
"I don't either." Something inside me cracks.
He pushes away from the counter. Slow. Deliberate. Like every step costs him something. He closes half the space between us, enough to feel the gravity between our bodies begin to pull.
"I meant what I said earlier. About your opportunity. About not complicating your decision." His voice hitches just slightly. "But that doesn't mean I want you to leave with this heaviness between us."
"What do you suggest?" My throat tightens.
"Just us. Right now. Before real life reclaims us both." His eyes hold mine—steady, unwavering. But there’s something unspoken beneath the surface. Vulnerability threaded through determination.
It shouldn’t be enough.
The offer is too clean. Too easy. But it’s everything. One last perfect ache. One more memory carved into the marrow of who we are.
Pride sayswalk away.
Fear saysdon’t get hurt again.
But something deeper, quieter, and more desperate recognizes this for what it is. It’s the only kind of truth either of us can give.
"I’d like that," I whisper, and cross the final distance between us until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and unspoken want.
