RILEY
T he kitchen is a disaster, blackened peppers floating in the sink, the acrid smell of burnt food lingering in the air.
I stare at Elias's broad back as he scrubs the ruined pan, muscles tensed beneath his flannel shirt.
He hasn't looked at me since our confrontation on the porch, since I touched his face and dared him to deny what's between us.
Since he walked away.
"I'll order pizza," I say, my voice still tight with frustration. "Delivery might take a while getting up the mountain, but?—"
"We don't need to order anything." He doesn't turn around. "There's stew in the freezer. I'll heat it up."
The strained formality in his voice makes me want to scream. To grab him by those impossibly broad shoulders and shake him until he stops pretending.
Instead, I move past him to retrieve bowls from the cabinet, careful not to let our bodies touch. "Fine. Stew it is."
We work in tense silence, Elias thawing and heating the stew while I set the table. The domesticity of it feels both wrong and right, wrong because of the distance between us, right because being here, in his space, feels natural despite everything.
When we finally sit down to eat, the silence becomes unbearable.
"Brad won't be a problem," I say, desperate to break the tension. "He's all talk."
Elias's blue eyes finally meet mine across the table. "Men like Cooper don't give up easily."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"You should be." His fingers tighten around his spoon. "His type is dangerous precisely because he's predictable. Entitled. Used to getting what he wants."
"Sounds like you've dealt with his kind before."
A shadow crosses his face. "In the Rangers. In this job. Men who think rules don't apply to them."
I study him, seeing beyond the hard exterior to the experiences that shaped him. Dad had told me some stories about their military days, but I know there are others, darker ones, that he took to his grave.
"What did you do? In the Rangers?"
His jaw tightens. "Things I don't talk about."
"Not even with Dad?"
"Bill knew. He was there for most of it." Elias takes a bite of stew, clearly hoping I'll drop the subject.
But I can't. Not tonight. Not when I need to understand the man behind the walls.
"He never told me much about your time overseas," I press gently. "Just that you saved his life once. That he wouldn't have made it home without you."
Surprise flickers across Elias's face. "He said that?"
"Many times." I offer a small smile. "He idolized you, you know. Thought you hung the moon."
Something like pain crosses his features. "Bill was the better man. Always was."
"He didn't think so." I set down my spoon, leaning forward. "What happened between you two? Why did you both leave the Rangers?"
Elias is quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then he sighs, a sound that carries the weight of decades.
"Kandahar, 2005. Routine patrol turned ambush." His voice drops, becomes distant. "Bill took a bullet meant for me. Nearly died. I carried him twelve miles to the extraction point."
The simple recounting doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, the tightness in his voice. There's more to the story, much more, but I don't push.
"After that, neither of us had much stomach for it anymore," he continues. "I left first. Came back to Grizzly Ridge, took the game warden position. Six months later, Bill followed with you in tow."
"I remember the day we arrived." The memory is hazy but warm. "You were waiting on the porch of our new house with a welcome basket. Dad hugged you like he'd found his long-lost brother."
A ghost of a smile touches Elias's lips. "You were this tiny thing with pigtails and a stuffed rabbit. Wouldn't let go of it for anything."
"Mr. Hops." I laugh softly. "I still have him somewhere. Dad kept all my childhood stuff in that storage unit outside town."
The mention of Dad's belongings sobers us both. He's been gone over a year, but grief still lingers in the spaces between words, in the memories that surface unexpectedly.
"I never thanked you," I say after a moment. "For handling everything after he died. The funeral, the paperwork, the house..."
"You were in your final semester. It was the least I could do."
The least he could do. Such a simple phrase for a man who stepped in without hesitation, who handled the thousand details of death while I fell apart three states away.
Who sold Dad's house and put the money in a trust for me.
Who made sure I could finish college without worrying about anything else.
"It was more than that, and you know it." I meet his gaze. "You've always been there. Every time I needed someone, you showed up."
His eyes soften slightly. "I made a promise."
"Not about that. Dad couldn't have known he'd get cancer." I reach across the table, not quite touching him but offering. "You did those things because that's who you are, Elias. Not because of some deathbed promise."
He stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable crossing his face. For a heartbeat, I think he might take it, might finally bridge the distance between us.
Instead, he pushes back from the table. "You shouldn't be thanking me. If I'd been a better friend, I would have noticed the symptoms sooner. Would have made him go to the doctor before it was too late."
The self-recrimination in his voice makes my chest ache. "Dad was the most stubborn man alive. You know that. He wouldn't have gone even if you'd tied him up and dragged him."
"Maybe. But I should have tried harder."
I recognize the guilt he's carrying, I've carried my own version. The "what ifs" that haunt the survivors. What if I'd come home more often? What if I'd noticed the weight loss during our video calls? What if, what if, what if.
"He wouldn't want this," I say softly. "You punishing yourself. Us walking on eggshells around each other."
Elias's eyes, when they meet mine, are dark with something that makes my heart race. "What would he want, Riley?"
The question is loaded with meaning. There's only one truthful answer, but saying it feels dangerous, like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far I'll fall.
"He'd want us to be happy." My voice doesn't waver. "Both of us."
For a moment, just a moment, something shifts in Elias's expression. The walls come down, and I see everything, the wanting, the restraint, the battle he fights every time he looks at me.
Then his phone rings, shattering the moment. He answers it, tension returning to his shoulders as he listens.
"When?" His voice is tight. "I'll be right there."
He ends the call, already reaching for his jacket. "That was Sawyer. Poachers spotted near the north ridge. Shots fired."
"Now? It's almost dark."
"Best time for illegal hunting." He grabs his rifle from the rack. "Don't wait up. This could take a while."
Just like that, he's gone. The door closes behind him with a finality that feels like rejection, and I'm left alone with cold stew and too many unsaid words.
The fire has burned down to embers by the time I hear Elias's truck returning. The grandfather clock in the corner shows nearly midnight, almost six hours since he left to chase poachers into the darkness.
I've spent those hours pacing, working on my laptop, and finally curling up on the couch with one of the books from his shelves. An old copy of Jack London's stories, dog-eared and well-loved. The same stories Dad used to read to me as a child.
The front door opens, letting in a gust of cool night air along with Elias. He pauses when he sees me, fatigue evident in the slump of his shoulders. There's mud on his clothes, a scratch on his cheek that wasn't there before.
"Thought you'd be asleep," he says, setting his rifle carefully in its rack.
"Couldn't." I close the book, marking my place. "Did you find them? The poachers?"
"One of them. The other got away." He shrugs off his jacket, revealing a tear in the sleeve of his shirt beneath. "Sawyer's got him in custody."
Something in his tone makes me look closer. "What aren't you telling me?"
Elias sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It was Brad's cousin. Derek Cooper. And from what he said while Sawyer was cuffing him, they were up there looking for more than deer."
My blood runs cold. "What do you mean?"
"He was drunk, running his mouth." Elias's eyes are like flint. "Said Brad wanted to scare you. Teach you a lesson."
The implications sink in slowly. "They were hunting near your property. With guns."
"Not anymore." The dangerous edge in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it sends a different kind of shiver through me.
"Are you okay?" I ask, rising from the couch. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing. Caught my arm on some branches during the chase."
I approach him slowly, like he's a wild animal that might bolt. "Let me see."
He hesitates, then extends his arm. I push up the torn sleeve to reveal a long scratch, not deep but angry-looking against his tanned skin. My fingers trace the edges of the wound, feeling the warmth of him.
"This needs cleaning," I murmur, not looking up.
"Riley..." His voice is strained.
"First aid kit?"
He sighs. "Bathroom cabinet."
I retrieve the kit, then gesture him toward the couch. To my surprise, he follows without argument, sinking onto the cushions with a weariness that speaks of more than physical exhaustion.
My hands are gentle as I clean the scratch with antiseptic, but I can feel the tension in him. This close, I can smell the pine and earth scent of him, see the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples.
"You didn't have to wait up," he says, voice rough.
"I know." I apply antibiotic cream to the scratch. "But I was worried."
"I can handle a couple of amateur poachers."
"I know that too." I meet his gaze. "Doesn't mean I can't worry anyway."
Something softens in his expression. "You're too much like your father. Stubborn as hell."
"Pretty sure I got that from both my parents." I finish bandaging his arm. "Dad always said Mom was the real hardhead in the family."
"She was," Elias agrees, a rare smile touching his lips. "Christina never backed down from anything. Bill used to say she'd argue with God himself if she thought He was wrong."
The mention of my mother, rare in itself, catches me off guard. "You knew her well?"
"Not as well as Bill, obviously. But we served together before she and Bill got serious. She was a combat medic. Best I ever saw." His eyes grow distant. "She saved my life once. Patched me up after an IED strike that should have killed me."
The revelation sends shock through me. In all my life, I've never heard this story. "Dad never told me that."
"It wasn't something we talked about much. After we lost her..." He shakes his head. "Bill couldn't bear to remember those days. And I respected that."
"What was she like?" The question comes unbidden, hungry for any scrap of information about my mom.
Elias studies me for a long moment, then says softly, "You have her eyes. Same shade of green. Same way of looking at a person like you can see straight through them."
The comparison makes my heart swell. All my life, I've heard how much I take after Dad, his stubbornness, his drive, his way of seeing the world. But this connection to my mother, from someone who knew her, is precious beyond words.
"She was fierce," Elias continues. "Brilliant. Never took no for an answer. Bill fell for her the moment they met, though it took him months to work up the courage to ask her out."
"Sounds familiar," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Elias goes very still. "Riley?—"
"I'm not sorry." I hold his gaze. "For what I said earlier. For what I feel."
"You should be." His voice roughens. "I'm twice your age. I was friends with your parents. I've known you since you were a child."
"But I'm not a child anymore." I move closer, bolstered by the fact that he doesn't back away. "And I'm tired of pretending I don't see how you look at me when you think I won't notice."
His jaw tightens. "It doesn't matter what I feel. It's not right."
"Why? Because of some arbitrary number? Because of what other people might think?" I place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart race beneath my palm. "Or because you're afraid?"
"I'm not afraid." But he doesn't move my hand.
"Aren't you?" I challenge softly. "Afraid of wanting something for yourself for once? Afraid of dishonoring Dad's memory? Afraid I'll wake up one morning and regret choosing a man twice my age?"
Each word hits its mark, I can see it in the way his expression shifts, the conflict in his eyes. He's standing on the same precipice I am, wanting to jump but terrified of the fall.
"I should go to bed," I say, not moving an inch. "It's late, and you need rest."
"You should," he agrees, equally motionless.
We stay frozen like that, his heart pounding beneath my palm, my own pulse racing in my veins. The air between us thickens, charged with everything we've said and all we've left unspoken.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Elias covers my hand with his own. The touch sends electricity through me, amplified when his other hand rises to cup my cheek.
"This is a bad idea," he murmurs, even as his thumb traces my cheekbone.
"Probably," I breathe, leaning into his touch. "Do you care?"
His eyes never leave mine as he answers, voice like gravel: "Less than I should."
The confession lingers for one heartbeat, two, three, and then he's pulling away, rising from the couch in a fluid motion.
"Goodnight, Riley." The words are final, decisive, despite the storm I can see brewing behind his eyes.
As he disappears down the hallway, I'm left with the ghost of his touch on my skin and the certainty that, sooner or later, one of us is going to break.
And when we do, there will be no going back.