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"Copy that," comes Martinez's reply. "Beginning patient prep for transport."

I check the anchors one more time, my movements automatic after years of practice. The rain is getting heavier, visibility dropping by the minute. If we don't get this guy out in the next hour, we'll all be spending the night on this mountain.

Lightning flashes in the distance, followed by a rumble of thunder. Not good. Not good at all.

"Weather's turning," I report. "How long on the prep?"

"Ten minutes," Martinez responds. "Kid's in rough shape."

I secure my position and scan the darkening horizon. The mission parameters dance through my mind—weight calculations, wind variables, extraction angles—the familiar rhythm of risk assessment that's been my lifeline for five years.

My thoughts unexpectedly slide to Sheryl, waiting back at my cabin. The image of her wearing my shirt, standing in my bedroom among the photographs of my past, is still sharp in my mind.

I'd reacted badly. Too harshly. The old defensive reflexes kicking in at the sight of her holding that piece of my history.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder. The storm is moving fast.

"Martinez, we need to move, NOW."

"Working on it, Brennan. Two more minutes."

I check the rigging again, though I know it's perfect. My mind splits between the immediate danger and thoughts of Sheryl. What if something goes wrong? What if I don't make it back?

The thought hits me with unexpected force. For five years, the only consequence of me not coming back was an empty cabin. No one waiting, no one wondering, no one caring particularly if Alex Brennan made it home.

Now there's Sheryl. Sheryl with her romance novels and her green eyes and her way of seeing through the barriers I've built around myself.

Lightning strikes a tree on the adjacent ridge, the crack and sizzle raising the hair on my arms. Too close.

"Martinez!"

"Ready for transport!"

I snap back to full focus, directing the team through the evacuation procedure. The stretcher rises slowly through the rain, the injured hiker secured inside. Every movement iscritical, every hand placement essential. One mistake could send him plummeting down the mountainside.

As I guide the line, I realize my thoughts keep returning to her. Not as a distraction, but as an anchor. For the first time in years, I'm thinking beyond the mission parameters, beyond getting everyone else home safely.

I'm thinking about getting myself home too. To her.

The realization shakes me. I've been going through the motions of living since the fire, moving from one rescue to the next, one day to the next, without any real connection. Existing rather than living.

When the wire evacuation is complete and the injured hiker safely transferred to the helicopter, I find myself checking my watch. The mission has taken nearly seven hours, longer than expected due to the weather.

"Good work, Brennan," Martinez says, clapping my shoulder as we pack up the gear. "You want to ride with us back to base or take your truck?"

"Truck," I answer immediately. "I need to get home."

Martinez raises an eyebrow, a knowing look crossing his face. "That girl from the cabin fire?"

I don't answer, but my expression must give me away.

"About damn time," he says with a grin. "The mountain man rejoins the land of the living."

I roll my eyes, but I can't deny the truth in his words. Something has shifted inside me, fundamental and irreversible. The thought of returning to my empty, ordered existence seems suddenly unbearable.

The drive back takes longer than usual with the storm-slick roads. It's after two in the morning when I finally pull up to my cabin. I expect darkness, assuming Sheryl would be asleep by now, but light spills from the windows into the rainy night.

She's still awake. Waiting for me.