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

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate. Just stares at some invisible point on the floorboards like if he focuses hard enough, he can hold the memory still. Or maybe bury it.

I want to reach for him. To offer touch. Warmth. Something.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t think he’s ever said those words out loud, and in this moment, holding space for them feels more sacred than any comfort I could give.

I don’t reach for him. He wouldn’t want that. But I see him. The grief he carries like it’s stitched into his skin. The way he’s built his whole life around silence, solitude, and surviving the wreckage.

“You saved that kid,” I whisper.

“I left someone behind,” he snaps, then exhales like the words cost him something. “I don’t need a medal for doing my job. Definitely not for getting a teammate get killed.”

I shake my head. “No medal. Just… someone who sees you. ”

He blinks at me. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

With me.

The concession, small as it is, feels significant. I nod, accepting the information without pushing for more.

"Your turn." He takes a bite of food, eyes still on me. "Why chase eagles in storm season?"

"My father was a wildlife photographer. The golden eagle was his white whale—he spent twenty years trying to capture the perfect shot." I smile at the memory. "He died two years ago, his collection incomplete."

"So you're finishing it for him."

"Trying to. I've got shots of forty-seven of the forty-eight species he documented. The eagle is the last one."

"Why now? Storm season isn't ideal for photography."

"Eagles nest in spring. This was my window." I shrug, not mentioning the anniversary of Dad's death approaching, the deadline I've set for myself to complete what he couldn't.

Caleb nods, something like understanding crossing his features. We finish eating in companionable silence, the earlier tension eased by this exchange of personal truths, however small.

Our brief exchange, rather than feeling like a normal conversation, feels as if I’ve fought a battle, and I don’t know if I’ve lost or won.

It’s hard to concentrate when I can feel him across the table—every shift of muscle, every breath. There’s a low, steady tension under his calm. A restraint I’m starting to suspect doesn’t stop at the surface.

And damn it, I want to find out just how far it goes.

We finish eating in silence, but it’s not awkward anymore. It’s thick. Taut. Like the whole cabin is holding its breath with us, waiting for the spark to hit the wire.

I move to gather the plates, but he pushes his chair back at the same time. “I’ve got it.”

“No way. You cooked. I’ll clean.” I bump him aside with my hip, an accidental move that feels anything but accidental. His hand comes to my lower back—light, fleeting, maddeningly gentle. But that touch? It lands like a strike of lightning. Just a brush of rough warmth and I forget how to function.

But it’s enough. The contact disappears, but the heat stays.

Enough to make me hyperaware of the space between us. Of how warm he is. Of the subtle scent that clings to him—pine and smoke and something that’s just him.

We fall into rhythm at the sink, passing plates and utensils, our fingers brushing again and again. Each accidental contact ratchets the tension higher. Every touch is like a spark we both pretend not to notice.

But we notice.

He hands me a pot. His fingers close around mine—just for a heartbeat too long. My breath stumbles. My gaze snaps to his. His eyes drop to my mouth, linger for half a second, and lift again. His jaw tightens like he’s biting back a decision he doesn’t trust himself to make.

Say something. Do something. Just breathe.

I want to ask what he’s thinking. I want to throw the dish towel and kiss him senseless. I do neither.

Instead, I dry the damn pot and pretend my pulse isn’t trying to escape through my throat and I’m not seconds from combusting.

We finish the dishes in silence after that. But it’s a different kind of quiet. Not empty. Full.

Full of the truth he let slip. Full of all the things we’re not saying. Full of heat and guilt and whatever this thing is sparking between us.

By the time we finish, I’m flushed and breathless, like we ran a marathon instead of doing dishes. He moves away first, breaking the moment like it cost him something. Maybe it did.

Night falls early in the mountains, darkness pressing against the windows. Rain continues its steady assault, the earlier downpour settling into a consistent patter that promises to continue through the night.

When he moves away to stoke the fire again, I let myself look. Really look. At the man who walks through fire and still carries the burn. At the strength, the solitude, and the surprising softness under all that gruff.

I pretend not to watch the flex of his back as he adds logs to the stove. The room fills with warmth, but I’m already burning.

The silence stretches again, deeper now, layered with everything we didn’t say and all the things I’m suddenly aching to.

The domestic scene feels strangely intimate—the two of us enclosed in this small space, surrounded by the vastness of wilderness.

"I'll take the floor tonight." He breaks the silence, nodding toward the back room. "You keep the bed."

And just like that, the spell shatters.

"That's ridiculous. This is your home. I should take the floor."

"You're injured." He gestures to my knee, the bandage visible through the tear in my pants.

"It's just a scrape. Besides, the floor's hard. Cold."

"All the more reason you shouldn't sleep on it." The line is delivered with such quiet finality, it’s not worth arguing.

Still, I try.

"At least alternate nights." I cross my arms, matching his stubborn stance.

"No."

"Why not? "

"Because I'm not taking a bed while my guest sleeps on the floor." The statement has the weight of an immovable principle behind it. "And because I said so."

God, he’s infuriating. Infuriating and principled and hot as sin. And, since my fantasies have hijacked my mind, I love the way he said that. Because I said so. Damn, light a match and let me burn.

“Fine.” I throw up my hands. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“Noted.” His lips twitch. The ghost of a smile, and it hits harder than a full grin from anyone else.

He unrolls a sleeping bag by the woodstove like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like giving up his bed is no big deal.

But it is.

It’s a massive deal, and I feel that deal in every beat of my suddenly traitorous heart.

"Caleb, seriously?—"

"It's decided." He cuts me off with a finality that brooks no argument. "Bathroom's yours if you want it."

I retreat to prepare for bed, borrowing a t-shirt he's grudgingly offered as sleepwear. When I return to the main room, he's dimmed the lights, leaving only the glow from the woodstove to illuminate the space.

"Goodnight, then." I hover awkwardly, still uncomfortable with the arrangement.

"Night." He's already in the sleeping bag, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

In the back room, I crawl into his bed and pull the covers up, his scent wrapping around me. Clean laundry, pine, woodsmoke… and something darker. Something dangerous.

Despite the cot's narrowness, it's reasonably comfortable, certainly better than the floor. Still, guilt needles me at the thought of Caleb's tall frame confined to a sleeping bag while I take his bed.

I lie there for hours, listening to the rain, the fire, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

And wondering why the most infuriating man I’ve ever met is also the one I most want to touch.