eight
Alex
The wind howls across the ridge, driving rain into my face as I secure the guideline.
Forty feet below, the rest of the SAR team works to stabilize the injured hiker—a twenty-eight-year-old male with a compound fracture of the tibia and early signs of hypothermia.
The chopper can't land in this terrain, so we're setting up a wire evacuation system to lift him to a clearing half a mile upslope.
"Line secure!" I call through the radio, the wind nearly drowning my voice.
"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 is critical, 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.
I sit in the truck for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I owe her an apology, but it's more than that. I owe her the truth about Mike and Jason, about the walls I've built, and about the fear that's been driving me for five years.
The cabin door opens before I reach it. Sheryl stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light behind her. She's still wearing my t-shirt. The sight of her stops me in my tracks.
"You're soaked," she says, concern replacing whatever anger might have remained from our argument.
"Occupational hazard." I step inside, dripping on the entryway floor. "Sorry about the mess."
"I don't care about the floor." She closes the door against the storm. "Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?"
Her concern for strangers she's never met is so genuine it makes my chest ache. "The hiker has a bad break and mild hypothermia, but he'll recover. Everyone else is fine."
She nods, relief evident in her expression. An awkward silence falls between us, the weight of our unfinished argument hanging in the air.
"I need to change," I finally say, gesturing to my soaked clothes.
"Of course." She steps back, giving me space to move past her. "I’ll make coffee. You probably need it after being out in this."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture isn't lost on me. "Thank you."
In my bedroom, I strip off the wet gear and towel dry quickly before pulling on dry clothes. My gaze falls on the photographs on my dresser—the ones she'd been looking at when I reacted so poorly.
I pick up a photo, studying the three smiling faces. Mike with his wild theories about everything. Jason with his medical textbooks and terrible jokes. Me, younger and unburdened by loss.
For the first time in years, the memory brings a bittersweet ache rather than sharp pain. I set the photo back carefully and head to the kitchen.
Sheryl is pouring coffee into a mug, looking nervous. She hands me the coffee without meeting my eyes.
"Thank you," I say, taking a sip.
She nods, finally looking up at me. "About earlier."
"I'm sorry," I interrupt. "I overreacted."
"No, I shouldn't have been snooping."
"You weren't snooping. You were looking for clothes, and the photos were right there." I set the coffee down and take a deep breath. "I'm not used to sharing my space. Or my past."
She leans against the counter, watching me carefully. "I understand if you don't want to talk about them."
"That's just it," I say, surprising myself with the realization. "I think maybe I do. Need to talk about them, I mean."
Her expression softens. "I'm listening."
I pick up my coffee again, needing something to hold. "Mike and Jason were more than roommates. They were family, the closest thing I had after my parents died in my twenties."
She listens silently as I tell her about them—Mike's dreams of opening a climbing school, Jason's determination to become a trauma surgeon, our shared adventures camping in the mountains. For the first time, I find myself sharing the good memories, not just the tragedy of their loss.
"I'm so sorry, Alex," she says when I finally fall silent. "They sound like amazing people."
"They were." I look down at my now-empty mug. "When they died, it changed me. I shut down. Built walls. Decided it was easier not to care too much about anyone."
"And then I showed up and set fire to your carefully ordered world," she says, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Literally," I agree, feeling the tension between us finally begin to ease. "Sheryl, what I said before, that was unfair. I know that's not who you are."
"Thank you." She takes a step closer. "For what it's worth, I think Mike and Jason would want you to be happy. To live, not just exist."
"That's what I was thinking out there tonight. During the rescue."
"What do you mean?" she asks, her head tilting slightly.
"For five years, I've been going through the motions.
Doing my job, coming home to an empty cabin, repeating the cycle without really living.
" I set the mug down and move closer to her.
"Tonight was different. For the first time, I found myself thinking about getting back safely.
Not just for the mission, but for myself. For you."
Her eyes widen. "For me?"
"I had something to come back to." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff without a safety line. "Someone waiting."
She steps forward, closing the distance between us. "I was waiting. Worried, too."
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. My hand cups her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. "I've been alone by choice for a long time. I'm not sure I remember how not to be."
"We could figure it out together," she suggests.
"Your book," I remind her. "Your deadline. You'll be leaving soon."
"Or I could stay here. With you." The words come out in a rush. "If you wanted that."
"I want that," I admit. "I want you to stay."
Relief and joy flood her expression. "Really?"
"Really." I pull her closer, our bodies fitting together naturally. "Fair warning, though. I'm not good at this. Relationships. Letting people in."
"Good thing I'm a writer," she says with a smile that lights up her entire face. "I'm excellent at working through difficult character development."
I can't help but chuckle, rusty from disuse but genuine. "Is that what I am? A difficult character?"
"The best kind," she assures me, rising on tiptoes to brush her lips against mine. "The kind with a complex backstory and hidden depths. The kind worth writing about."