Page 22 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Evening descends with the finality of an executioner's axe.

Shadows bleed long and dark across the cabin floor as I fold the last of my clothes into my backpack. Each item carries a weight. Each zipper tug a goodbye I don’t want to say out loud. The room smells like pine and ash and him. Like the silence that’s settled thick between us.

The radio crackles on Caleb's desk, a harsh, static-laced sound that slices through the stillness like a warning shot.

"Sierra Station, this is Dispatch. Do you copy?"

I freeze. My heart clenches. There it is. The thing we've both been pretending wouldn’t come.

Caleb, silent since returning an hour ago, looks up from the notes he’s been pretending to organize. His jaw flexes, and then he moves to the radio, his voice low and steady. Controlled.

"Sierra Station. Go ahead, Dispatch."

"Roads are officially cleared to Blue Spruce Campground. Rangers will be passing your location at 0800 tomorrow for supply delivery. Can arrange transport for your visitor if needed."

His eyes meet mine across the room. The look holds me still. Like a hand wrapped tight around my ribs.

"Copy that. She'll be ready. Sierra Station out."

He sets the handset down with a kind of care that’s louder than a slam. I can't breathe around the pressure in my chest.

"So. Tomorrow morning," he says.

"Tomorrow morning," I echo, fingers worrying the zipper of my bag like it’s something I can control. "Sounds like my eviction notice is official."

The joke dies before it lands. Caleb doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. He turns his back, rifling through papers that definitely don’t need rifling.

"Need anything for the trip back? Water, snacks?"

"I'm good." I buckle my pack like I’m bracing for battle. "Though I should probably call my agent once I have reliable service. The deadline for the Australia position?—"

"Right." He cuts me off. No hesitation. No softness. "You must be eager to get back to civilization. Real showers, decent coffee."

"The coffee here isn't half bad." I force a smile that feels more like a fracture.

A pause.

"And the company has been... unexpected."

His shoulders tense, broad and unmoving beneath his flannel, but when he turns, something in his expression cracks open. Just a little.

"Harper—"

The radio interrupts again. A mercy or a curse, I’m not sure. I back away, retreating to the window seat where twilight presses up against the glass. Caleb’s voice turns official again as he speaks to Dispatch, but I barely register the words.

Outside, the forest gives way to darkness. Every tree swallowed by shadow. And with the night comes the cold, creeping in beneath the seams of the cabin—and beneath my skin.

It’s the slow, inevitable unraveling of something that never got a chance to begin.

When the radio finally goes quiet, Caleb moves to the kitchenette, his silhouette tall and backlit in the amber glow of a single lamp.

"Hungry?"

"Not really."

Not for food. Not when I’m already choking on goodbye.

"Should eat something anyway."

He pulls together a quiet meal—bread, cheese, smoked trout. The last of what we have. We sit across from each other, knees almost touching under the narrow table. Every motion is deliberate. Every glance held too long, or not at all.

Passing the water pitcher. Reaching for the salt. My fingers brush his, and the contact lingers longer than it should. Static, heat, tension. And then nothing. We keep going like it didn’t happen.

Afterward, I help with the dishes. Close quarters. Barely enough room to turn without touching. But we don’t. Somehow, we manage not to.

The silence between us now feels like its own kind of storm.

“I should double-check my gear,” I say, just to break it. Just to run.

But when I look up, Caleb's already watching me. And that look—raw, unreadable, carved from whatever we’ve been trying not to say—stops me cold.

"Harper."

My name lands like an anchor, stopping me halfway to the bedroom. I turn. Caleb stands braced against the counter, arms tense and knuckles white, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming after me.

"I don't want our last night to be like this."

His voice is low. Raw. Honest in a way that slices clean through every wall I’ve managed to hold in place.

"I don't either." Something inside me cracks.

He pushes away from the counter. Slow. Deliberate. Like every step costs him something. He closes half the space between us, enough to feel the gravity between our bodies begin to pull.

"I meant what I said earlier. About your opportunity. About not complicating your decision." His voice hitches just slightly. "But that doesn't mean I want you to leave with this heaviness between us."

"What do you suggest?" My throat tightens.

"Just us. Right now. Before real life reclaims us both." His eyes hold mine—steady, unwavering. But there’s something unspoken beneath the surface. Vulnerability threaded through determination.

It shouldn’t be enough.

The offer is too clean. Too easy. But it’s everything. One last perfect ache. One more memory carved into the marrow of who we are.

Pride says walk away .

Fear says don’t get hurt again.

But something deeper, quieter, and more desperate recognizes this for what it is. It’s the only kind of truth either of us can give.

"I’d like that," I whisper, and cross the final distance between us until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and unspoken want.

His hand rises to my face, rough palm cupping my cheek like I’m something sacred. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.

But his eyes—God, his eyes—they say everything .

When his mouth finds mine, it’s not frantic or rushed. It’s slow. Soul-deep. A kiss that tastes like goodbye and reverence, all tangled together. My arms wind around his neck. His wrap around my waist. He pulls me in like he’s memorizing the shape of missing me.

Time bends. Folds. Each sensation sharper because we both know what’s coming. The rasp of his stubble against my jaw. The scent of him—smoke and pine and heat. The way his hands grip tight, then gentler, then tight again, like he can’t decide between holding on and letting go.

We move through the cabin in pieces. My sweater caught on the back of a chair. His flannel shirt landing near the woodstove. Every layer discarded like a truth we’re no longer afraid to show.

By the time we reach the bed, we’re skin to skin. Warmth against warmth. His heartbeat a steady drum beneath my palm.

This time there’s no rush. No storm outside or urgency inside. Just this.

Him.

Me.

The breath between kisses. The way his hands map my body like he’s learning it, memorizing it. I trace every scar. Every line. Every place I’ll miss too much.

"You’re beautiful," he says, voice thick, barely holding together.

I can’t answer. The lump in my throat swells too high. So I pull him down instead, and show him everything I can’t speak.

This isn’t just sex. It’s surrender. Worship. It’s grief in the shape of intimacy.

When he moves inside me, it feels like coming home to something I never believed I could deserve. His name breaks from my lips in a whisper, and I swear I feel him tremble .

We don’t make love.

We say goodbye with every touch. Every breath. Every trembling heartbeat that dares to hope the morning won’t come.

Every motion is deliberate. Every breath shared. His eyes never leave mine, anchoring me in something deeper than sensation. I ride the edge, breath catching, heart racing, and when the tension finally breaks, it’s his name that tears from me—a broken whisper made of want and wonder.

He follows with a shudder against my skin, his face buried in the crook of my neck. My name leaves his lips like a confession, like a prayer. I wrap my arms around him and hold tight, not knowing how to let go.

Afterward, we lie tangled in the dark. My head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding me. His fingers trace aimless, featherlight shapes along my spine—circles, lines, something that feels like a memory in the making.

The silence has changed. No longer tense or unfinished. Now it’s full. Quiet, sacred.

Outside, the wind threads through the pine boughs, soft and constant. Nature’s lullaby, wrapping around the hush between us.

"I didn’t plan for this." His voice rumbles beneath my ear, a sound I feel more than hear. It vibrates through his chest, into my bones.

"No one plans for a bedraggled photographer to get stranded on their doorstep in a thunderstorm." I try to make it light. But my voice catches on the truth I’m not quite ready to say. "But I don’t regret it. Nor do I regret feeling this way."

I shift, rising just enough to see his face. Moonlight kisses the sharp lines of his jaw, softens the raw honesty in his eyes.

"What way?"

His gaze holds mine. No deflection. No escape.

"Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was missing."

The words hit with the force of a heartbeat skipping a beat.

"Caleb—"

"I know. No promises. No expectations." His thumb brushes the curve of my bottom lip, so gently that it makes my throat ache. "But I need you to know—this wasn’t casual for me. It never was."

"For me, either." The truth slips free without resistance. It feels right here, in the dark, in the warmth of him. "I don’t want to lose this."

He searches my face. Not pushing. Just present.

"What do you want?"

The question lingers in the air, heavy and full of dangerous hope.

"I don’t know." The words tremble, real, and rough. "Everything’s happening so fast. The National Geographic offer, us... I haven’t had time to think clearly."

"I understand." And somehow, I believe him. There’s no edge in his voice, no expectation—just steady, unwavering patience.

"But I’ve never felt this way before." I flatten my palm against his chest, feel the warmth of him, the rhythm I’ve already memorized. "Not with anyone."