Page 21 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

“You make it sound so clinical. Is that how you feel? Everything that’s happened between us is… situational?” The suggestion stings more than it should, pride wounded alongside something deeper.

“No. That’s not what I mean." He exhales, slow and heavy. "What we’ve shared—it matters. But I need to be sure it’s more than just the storm talking. More than adrenaline and isolation and needing someone to hold on to.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "We have to be realistic. You live on planes and in hotels, following stories around the world. I'm here, committed to this mountain and this forest."

"And those facts are suddenly revelations?" I stand, needing physical movement to relieve the tension in my chest. "You knew who I was, what I do, when you kissed me. When you took me to your bed."

"And you knew I would stay." His voice remains steady despite the flash of emotion in his eyes. "That I built a life here for reasons that haven't changed."

"So what was this?" I gesture between us, anger rising to cover hurt. "A convenient distraction during bad weather? Cabin fever with benefits?"

"That's not fair." He stands, too, his height advantage forcing me to tilt my head to maintain eye contact. "What happened between us is real, but real doesn't automatically mean lasting."

The truth in his words cuts deeper than accusations would have .

"So that's it? Thanks for the memories, have a nice life in Australia?"

"That's not what I'm saying." Frustration edges his tone for the first time.

"I'm saying we need to be practical about this.

You have an incredible opportunity that aligns perfectly with your life's work. Your father's legacy. I’m not going to stand in the way of that. It’s not the kind of man I am. "

"And what if I'm reconsidering what my life’s work looks like?" The question emerges before I've fully formed the thought.

"Are you?" His gaze sharpens, searching my face. "Is that what you were thinking before you knocked on my door? Or are you caught up in the romance of finding connection in an unexpected place?"

The question hits uncomfortably close to my unexamined feelings.

"That's not fair."

"Life rarely is." His expression softens slightly. "I care about you. More than I ever expected to, more than I wanted to, if I’m being completely honest. But I won't let you turn down the kind of opportunity you've worked your entire career to earn."

"That's not your decision to make." Indignation rises, familiar and comforting compared to the complicated emotions beneath it.

"No, it's yours." He steps closer, voice gentling. "And you should make it without the pressure of whatever this is between us. Without romantic notions clouding your professional judgment."

"You think that's what's happening?" I wrap arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm sunshine. "That I'm some lovesick girl ready to throw away my career for a man I just met?"

“I think you’re conflicted. I think what’s happened between us has been intense and unexpected for both of us.” His hands lift, hover like they want to reach for me, then fall uselessly to his sides.

“And you’re a complicating factor.” My voice comes out flatter than I intend, the quiet hurt behind it masked by pride.

His jaw tightens. “We both are.”

He looks past me, out toward the horizon, but I feel the shift—like I’m already slipping out of reach. “This place, the storm… it created a bubble. A space where everything felt heightened. Real. And it is. But that doesn’t mean it can survive outside of it.”

“You’re saying it’s not real.”

“No.” He turns back to me, eyes shadowed with something too deep for words. “I’m saying it feels real, because it is real . But that doesn’t mean it’s meant to last beyond this.”

The ache in my chest cracks wider.

“I would never ask you to give up your dreams,” he says softly, “not for me. Not for something that might not survive once we’re back in the world where deadlines and decisions and distance are real.”

“So this is you… what? Letting me go before I even decide to stay?”

He shakes his head, grief buried behind quiet resolve. “This is me loving you enough not to let what we have become something you’ll regret.”

My breath catches.

Loving me.

He said it. Not in a grand declaration or sweeping vow, but quietly. Unflinchingly. As if it’s always been true.

And that’s what undoes me.

Not the part where he’s trying to protect my future.

Not the part where he’s already preparing for goodbye.

But the part where he’s doing it out of love.

Because Caleb isn’t walking away from me .

He’s walking away for me.

"We should head back. You'll want to be packed and ready when the roads clear."

The hike down passes in strained silence, the camaraderie of earlier replaced by physical and emotional distance. We move efficiently, speaking only when necessary about trail conditions or approaching weather. The comfortable vibe between us is replaced by awkward tension and distance.

When the cabin finally comes into view, that tension has crystallized into something brittle and painful.

Caleb stops at the forest's edge, gesturing toward the structure that was a prison, then a sanctuary, and now simply a temporary accommodation.

"I need to check the eastern trail before dark. Radio, if you need anything."

The transparent excuse to avoid further conversation should irritate me. Instead, it just aches.

"Caleb—"

"It's better this way." His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away. "Cleaner."

He's gone before I can respond, disappearing into the forest with the efficiency of someone who belongs there far more than I ever could.

I watch until his form vanishes among the trees, then continue to the cabin that suddenly feels emptier than when I first arrived.

Inside, I move mechanically through packing, gathering scattered belongings from corners where they've migrated during my stay. Each item collected feels like dismantling evidence of my presence here, erasing traces of days that already seem dreamlike in their intensity.

He's giving me the perfect out—a way to leave without complications. It's exactly what the old Harper would want.

So why does it feel so wrong?