Page 23 of Wrecked on the Mountain

But this... this feels different.

I take a sip of tea, steel myself, and open the bag.

Oh my God.

The first thing I pull out is a package of homemade cookies, wrapped in wax paper with a piece of masking tape that says "Mom's Recipe" in handwriting that definitely belongs to a man who learned cursive in elementary school and never quite perfected it.

They smell like lemon and butter and everything good in the world.

I lift one to my nose, inhaling the lemony scent that immediately transports me back to Sunday mornings with Dad, his pancakes sizzling on the griddle while Mom read the newspaper. The memory is so vivid it makes my chest ache.

Then, the second item makes me actually laugh out loud.

It's a fucking thermal mug. Not just any thermal mug—this is the kind of high-end, double-walled, keep-your-coffee-hot-for-eight-hours situation.

And it's purple.

My favorite color, which I may have mentioned exactly once during our patrol today when I was talking about my dad's garden.

He remembered.

Next, a pair of insulated gloves that look like they could withstand an Arctic expedition.

"Message received, Strike," I mutter, remembering his lecture about proper gear on the way back down the mountain.

But it's the fourth item that makes me sit down heavily on my kitchen stool.

A hand-drawn map.

Not a printed trail guide or some generic tourist thing. This is clearly personal. Drawn on quality paper in confident lines. The kind of attention to detail that suggests the artist knows every rock, every tree, every turn.

I trace the contour lines with my fingertip, noticing the perfect elevation markings and detailed terrain notes. This isn't just a trail map—it's a full blown land assessment.

The way he's marked potential hazards, alternate routes, and optimal viewing positions screams military.

"Special Forces," I whisper, remembering his casual mention of Afghanistan today.

Jamie Striker isn't just some mountain man. He's elite military. The kind who probably mapped enemy territory from memory.

Cascade Ridge Sunrise Trailis written across the top in that same careful handwriting.

There are little notes scattered across the drawing: "Best view 6:30 AM." "Watch for ice here." "Wildflowers in spring."

And at the bottom, in smaller text that looks fresher, less faded, like it was written hours ago: "My favorite spot. Thought you might like it too."

My favorite spot.

I stare at the map until my tea gets cold.

Who does this? Who takes the time to hand-draw a map to their secret sunrise spot and leave it on someone's doorstep with homemade cookies and expensive mountain gear?

Is this a mountain man mating ritual? Because if so, it's working.

I know I should get a grip.

But I can't stop looking at the map. At the careful way he's marked potential hazards. The little heart he drew next to "Best view" like he couldn't help himself.

The fact that he shared something personal. Something that's clearly important to him.