The search doesn’t take long. A family of four, shaken but okay, standing near a bend in the trail where the father slipped and twisted his ankle. While the EMTs wrap it, I kneel beside the youngest — a girl maybe seven years old — who’s still crying quietly.
“Hey, you’re safe now,” I tell her gently. “We’re gonna make sure everyone gets home.”
She doesn’t answer, just curls into her mother.
I scan the treeline, making sure there’s no other sign of distress.
And that’s when I see her.
Emma.
She’s farther up the trail, crouched beside another kid — a boy, maybe ten — who looks scared but unharmed. She’s talking to him softly, letting him show her a photo on his phone, her expression warm and steady.
No camera in her hand. No frantic scrambling for the perfect shot.
Just presence. Just instinct. Just kindness.
Something shifts low in my chest — not sharp this time, not complicated. Just… certain.
I walk toward them, boots crunching lightly, and she looks up when she hears me.
Her eyes widen.
She straightens slowly, brushing dirt from her gloves. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I work here,” I say dryly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I know.
I also know she left without waking me, without a word, and yet standing here now — cheeks flushed, hair wind-tousled, eyes soft in a way she can’t hide — none of that matters as much as I thought it would.
“You okay?” she asks, voice quieter now.
“I should be asking you that,” I say.
Her breath catches — just faintly. “I’m fine.”
But the way she looks at me… it’s not fine. It’s familiar, like last night is still echoing somewhere between us.
The kid beside her waves a little. “She helped me find my parents.”
Emma smiles at him, then gestures vaguely at the clearing. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on this trail. I was following the light and?—”
“Of course you were.”
She huffs. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Her mouth curves. “That’s rude.”
“You’re rude.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“Never said it was.”
