“Tell me…,” I say during one of Duchess’s quieter periods, “what’s it like being a firefighter in the Zone?”
“Different from out here.” He stirs the fire, sending sparks snapping up the chimney. “More concrete, more people. But the job’s the same—helping people when everything’s going wrong.”
“Do you miss it? Now that you’re up here in the mountains, I mean.”
He considers this, staring into the flames. “I miss the crew. The camaraderie. But this…” He gestures around the cabin, encompassing the animals, the storm, and finally me. His gaze lingers just long enough that heat curls in my stomach. “This feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived.”
Before I can respond, Duchess lets out a more urgent cry. We both turn our attention to her as she circles her bedding, pawing at the towels with increasing intensity.
“This is it,” I murmur, watching her settle and begin the process of bringing new life into the world. “First kitten’s coming.”
The next few hours pass in a blur of quiet activity. Duchess delivers four kittens, each one healthy and tiny. Ryder proves to be invaluable—steady and sure, anticipating what I need before I even speak. His big hands are astonishingly gentle, and every brush of our fingers sends sparks skittering through me.
“They’re so small,” he marvels, watching the kittens nurse. “So completely helpless.”
He leans closer, and our hands collide as we both reach for the black and white one, the smallest of the litter. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. My fingers linger against his—warm, callused, steady—and when I finally glance up, the wonder in his face isn’t just for the kittens. It’s for me. I should pull back. Instead, I let myself stay here just a breath longer than I should, memorizing the warmth of him. Heat climbs my throat, and I drag in a shaky breath, breaking the moment before it can consume me.
“This little one’s the smallest,” he says softly, his finger stroking the tiny black and white bundle. White paws stand out against dark fur like he stepped in fresh paint. “Boots. Perfect name for him, don’t you think?”
I nod, mesmerized by how carefully he touches the kitten. “Totally adorable.” My attention shifts to the pure white kitten. “Of course, this one has to be—”
“Snowball,” we say in unison, then laugh at the synchronicity.
“The orange tabby could be Pumpkin,” I suggest, watching the largest of the bunch.
“And this gray one?” Ryder’s expression softens as he observes the fourth kitten. “Pip. She looks like a Pip.”
“Pip it is,” I agree, watching all four nurse contentedly.
“They’re so peaceful,” I muse, “but they’ll grow fast. In a few weeks, they’ll be tiny terrors getting into everything.”
We sit back, exhausted but satisfied, watching the new family settle. I snap a few photos of the brood and a few of each kitten to send to their owner later when our cell service returns. The storm continues outside, but it seems less threatening now that we’ve successfully brought four new lives safely into the world.
“We should try to get some rest,” I say, checking my watch. It’s after two in the morning. “Duchess will need monitoring, but she’s doing everything right.”
We settle onto the mattress, the fire burning low but steady at our feet. I lie on my side facing the kittens, pretending to focus on their tiny movements, but my awareness keeps circling back to Ryder stretched out across from me.
When I finally dare a glance, the firelight flickers over the planes of his face, over the broad shoulders that make my tiny cabin feel even smaller. He’s only a few feet away, but the space between us is charged. Rolling a few inches closer would change everything.
“Laney?” His voice is soft in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For letting me be part of this.”
My focus shifts from the kittens to him, the firelight tracing the strong line of his jaw. “Thank you for being here. I couldn’t have managed everything alone.”
“You could have,” he says with quiet certainty. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
The words echo something my grandmother used to say, and they settle into a place in my chest that’s been empty for too long. I close my eyes, feeling the exhaustion of the long day washing over me.
“Get some sleep,” Ryder says gently. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”
“You need rest, too.”
“I will. But right now, you need it more.”
Despite the nerves skittering through me at the thought of sharing a room with him—his size, his warmth, the pull I’m trying so hard to ignore—the fire’s glow and the soft soundsof the kittens nursing are incredibly soothing. I drift off to the sound of wind and crackling wood—and the low, steady rhythm of Ryder’s breathing. Strong, patient, unshakable. It’s the safest sound I can imagine.
