I reach out with trembling fingers and take the canteen. The water is cold and tastes better than anything I've ever drunk. I have to force myself to stop after a few swallows.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"You're going to pass out if you try to walk out of here and back to town. My cabin's twenty minutes that way." He points north. "You can rest, leave at first light."
I should be terrified. I should be calculating how to escape. Instead, an inexplicable sense of relief washes over me. Something about his steady gaze, the careful distance he maintains, the matter-of-fact offer of help without pressing. For some reason, it makes me emotional.
God, the bar is really in hell because I'm being moved to tears by simple kindness and decency.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I don't even know your name."
"Wyatt Stone." He extends a hand to help me up. "And you are?"
"Emma. Emma Carter."
I place my hand in his. His palm engulfs mine completely, rough with calluses but gentle in how it closes around my fingers. Hepulls me to my feet with effortless strength, steadying me when I sway.
And that's when it hits me—not fear, but a sudden, visceral awareness of him as a man. The breadth of his shoulders under the flannel shirt. The way his beard frames lips that are surprisingly full. The heat of his hand against mine.
My cheeks flush hot, and it has nothing to do with dehydration or exhaustion.
What the hell is wrong with me? I'm lost in the wilderness, accepting help from a stranger who looks like he could snap me in half, and my body chooses now to notice he's attractive?
"Can you walk?" he asks, releasing my hand.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He gestures for me to follow, then turns and starts walking. I scramble to keep up with his long strides, clutching my camera bag and adjusting my small backpack.
"You a professional?" He nods toward my camera without looking back.
"No. Just ... a hobbyist. I do hope to become professional someday, but with the way my parents?—"
I stop, belatedly realizing I'm starting to ramble. I was seriously about to dump my entire life on him.
Wyatt makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. We walk in silence after that, me struggling to keep up while my mind races with contradictions.
I'm surprised I can actually breathe better. It's … odd. Terror is definitely nowhere to be found. Instead, I feel safer than I have in months.
I don't know this man. Yet something in me trusts him completely.
He's intimidating as hell. Looks grumpy and gruff, too. But I can't stop looking and wondering how those rough hands would feel against my skin.
The light fades rapidly as we walk. Wyatt moves with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of this forest. Meanwhile, I stumble over roots and rocks, cursing my city shoes. If I trip and snap my neck, death by stupidity again.
"Here." His voice breaks the silence as we crest a small rise.
The cabin sits in a small clearing, nestled against the mountainside. It's not what I expected—not some ramshackle shack, but a solid structure of wood and stone, with a small porch and windows glowing with warm light.
"Wow, that looks nice. Did you build this?"
He nods. "Every piece."
The door opens to a single large room that smells of freshly baked bread. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, embers glowing. Simple furniture—a table, chairs, shelves lined with books. Everything wooden and handmade with evident skill.
I stand awkwardly just inside the door, suddenly aware of my disheveled state.
"Bathroom's through there if you want to clean up." Wyatt points to a door on the right. "There's only one bedroom. You'll take it tonight."
"I can't kick you out of your bed?—"
