Page 16

CALLUM

C allum poked the hearth until the new birch log caught, blue flames licking across its bark.

The cabin smelled of damp wool, coffee, and faint lilac, a mix he pretended not to notice.

Cora sat on the sofa, blanket draped over her knees, steam curling from a refilled mug.

Her cheeks glowed from heat and perhaps something brighter.

She had fallen quiet, studying the leather notebook on the side table. Every so often she glanced up as if considering a crime. The first two times he ignored it. The third time he sighed.

“You will keep staring until it bursts.” He folded onto the armchair, coffee balanced on one broad palm. “Go on. Ask.”

Her mouth curved. “I was not staring.”

“Liar.”

“All right, maybe a little.” She tucked damp curls behind one ear. “You said you never share your poems. Never is a heavy word.”

He took a long sip, using the mug to hide his grimace. “I meant it.”

Her smile turned coaxing. “One line? Just so I can hear how a lion spins words.”

The room felt smaller, firelight pressing close.

He thought of Tessa, of the way she used to steal pages from his journal and tease the metaphors out loud.

The ache that followed surprised him less than the gentleness of it.

The wound no longer screamed; it throbbed like an old scar, ache softened by time and, perhaps, the scent of lilacs by his hearth.

Cora waited, green eyes bright but patient. He could say no and she would not push. That certainty pricked something tender. A single line, then. A safe one.

Callum set his mug down, ran a thumb along the edge of the notebook, and opened to a middle page. Inked across the top, jagged and dark, sat a line he had written during a sleepless thunderstorm:

I guard the wild places, yet the wild has already claimed me.

He cleared his throat. “That is all.”

Cora leaned forward, reading, then leaned back as if the words carried heat. “It feels… alive,” she murmured. “Like claws wrapped in moonlight.” Her gaze flicked to him, soft and astonished. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The praise settled heavy and warm in his chest, unexpected as summer rain. He swallowed. “Do not make a fuss.”

“No fuss,” she promised, voice hushed. “Only honesty. It’s beautiful, Callum.”

His pulse stumbled. Beautiful. A word he rarely attached to himself. The fire popped, sending sparks toward the flue. He looked away, pretending to watch them dance.

Dangerous, this feeling of being seen. Yet he found he wanted more.

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“I know.” He slid the leather beneath a stack of field maps. Trust had slipped in while he wasn’t looking.

Outside, rain started, pattering on the cedar shakes. She glanced at the foggy windows. “Trail will be slick.”

“I’ll still walk you.” He rose, gathering their mugs. “Can’t have you injuring yourself and setting off a spell while I’m supposed to be guarding you.”

Her laugh was soft. “Oh, how kind of you.”

They donned their still-damp outer shirts and stepped onto the porch. Night clung to the forest, cool and sweet with petrichor. Clouds drifted past a sliver moon. Callum led the way, boots sure on the muddy path. The rain slowed to a whisper, leaves shaking off droplets as they passed.

Cora hummed quietly, the same lullaby he had almost memorized. He found himself matching his pace to the rhythm. The forest around them seemed to listen; even the frogs along Hollow Creek paused their croak to let the tune float.

After a few minutes she spoke. “Does walking the same trail every day get dull?”

He shook his head. “The forest changes. Paths twist overnight, springs appear, owls trade roosts. You learn to notice small shifts.”

“Like a lake deciding to toss us in.”

“That was new.” His lips twitched. “I prefer less dramatic introductions.”

Cora laughed, twirling a wet braid. “It certainly woke me up.”

They reached a bend where fireflies bobbed above fern fronds, gold lights swaying like tiny lanterns. The glow kissed her cheeks, and he caught himself staring. She turned, caught the look, and flushed. He jerked his attention forward, heat pricking his ears.

Soon the small stone cottage came into view, windows glowing amber behind lace curtains. A single lantern hung on the post, carved with oak leaves and tiny acorns. He slowed at the gate.

“Home,” he announced, voice lower than intended.

She faced him, tugging the blanket tighter over her shoulders. Rain-dark lashes framed eyes the color of deep leaves after storm. “Thank you, Callum. Not just for the escort.” She hesitated. “For the poem, too.”

He shifted, uncomfortable yet pleased. “How about we don’t mention it again.”

Her smile said she would treasure it instead. She stepped back toward her door. “Coffee tomorrow?”

“Duty calls at dawn,” he answered. “If the lake behaves, perhaps.”

“I’ll hold it to that.”

She lifted a hand in farewell and slipped inside. Warm light spilled onto the step then vanished as the door clicked shut. Callum remained at the gate, listening until he heard the latch slide and curtains rustle. Only then did he turn toward the dark trail.

Rain had stopped, leaving the forest breathing softly. His lion prowled content, surprisingly calm after an evening spent beside her. The word mate tried to surface again, but he pushed it down. Not yet. Protect first. Everything else later.

He headed back toward the cabin, night sounds wrapping around him like a cloak. Somewhere ahead an owl hooted, echoing into the trees. He answered with a low whistle, the old ranger signal that all was well.

For now, at least, Hollow Oak slept safe. And despite himself, Callum let the memory of her praise ride with him through the dark, warming the parts of him he thought had frozen forever.