That was what I told myself as I stood on Emory’s porch Saturday morning, knocking once and then lowering my hand before the echo fully faded.
She’d been in Iron Peak for over a week now. Long enough that she should know the area. The trails. The way the terrain changed without warning. The places where cell service dropped out completely like the mountains swallowed the signal whole.
Safety reasons.
If something happened—if she slipped, if the weather turned, if she wandered somewhere she shouldn’t—she needed to know where she was and how to get help. That was what I’d rehearsed. The explanation I could justify. The version of this that made sense.
The truth sat heavier in my chest. I wanted to spend the day with her.
The door opened, and the thought evaporated as Emory smiled at me, bright and easy and entirely unguarded. It hit like a blunt-force impact to the ribs.
She was dressed for the outdoors. Hiking boots worn in but sturdy. Leggings that hugged her thighs and calves. A fitted long-sleeve shirt that should have been completely unremarkable but somehow wasn’t, clinging in ways I was deliberately trying not to catalog.
I failed.
“You’re here early,” she said.
“Best time to hike,” I replied. “Before the sun gets high.”
She stepped back inside, grabbed a lightweight jacket and a small backpack from beside the door, then joined me on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “Where are we going?”
“Iron Peak Trailhead. Best views around here.”
She didn’t hesitate. No nerves, as far as I could tell. No second-guessing. Just curiosity.
“Lead the way.”
We walked side by side down the gravel road away from the cabins, the crunch of boots against stone the only sound between us at first. The morning air was cool enough to bite, but not unpleasant. The sky was a deep, impossible blue you only saw at this altitude, the kind that never lasted past late morning.
Birds moved through the trees overhead, wings rustling. Somewhere farther off, water rushed over rock—steady, persistent.
After a few minutes, Emory broke the silence. “I really needed this. I’ve been staring at textbooks for so long, I forgot the sun existed.”
“How’s the studying going?”
She shrugged. “Good. I think. I’ll know for sure when midterms hit.” She glanced at me. “Thanks for forcing me to take breaks. I probably would’ve studied myself into a hospital stay if you hadn’t kept showing up.”
I grunted. Gratitude always sat wrong with me, like something I didn’t know how to accept properly.
“I mean it,” she continued. “You’ve been really sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
She laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. “Okay. You’ve been really gruff and intimidating in a way that somehow still translates to sweet. Better?”
I didn’t respond, but I felt the pull at the corner of my mouth. She noticed. She always noticed.
The trail narrowed as we left the road behind, winding upward through dense pine and scrub oak. Rocks jutted from the dirt at uneven angles, and the incline grew steeper as we climbed. Emory adjusted easily, breathing steady despite the elevation.
All that yoga, probably.
Don’t think about the yoga.
Too late.
I shoved the thought aside and focused on the trail.
“Tell me about this place,” she said. “You mentioned a logbook when we were at the diner.”
