The ranger shed. Emory’s body against mine. The way she'd fallen apart in my arms, trusting me with something she'd never given anyone else. The weight of that trust settled heavy in my chest, equal parts awe and fear.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and let myself feel it—the warmth spreading through my body, the quiet contentment I didn’t have to fight, the unfamiliar lightness that made breathing feel easier than it had in years.
And she was still here. The knowledge both steadied and unsettled me.
After we'd walked back from the trailhead, I'd brought her to my cabin. At the time, it had felt natural. Easy. Like something we’d done a hundred times before. We'd showered together, her back against my chest under the warm spray, my hands gentle on her sore muscles. Then I'd carried her to bed and held her while she slept, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
I hadn't slept much. I hadn’t wanted to. I'd been too busy memorizing the feel of her—the weight of her body against mine, the softness of her hair between my fingers, the small sounds she made when she dreamed.
Now she was in my kitchen. Making coffee. Humming.
Like she belonged here.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
I got up and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. When I walked into the kitchen, the sight of her stopped me cold.
She was wearing one of my flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up and the hem hitting her mid-thigh. The sight twisted something deep in my gut—possessive and panicked all at once. Her hair was loose and messy, her feet bare, her face soft and unguarded. She stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs, completely at ease in my space.
She looked up and smiled. "Morning."
That smile. It hit me like a fist to the chest every single time. I didn’t know how to defend myself against it.
"Morning," I managed.
"I made coffee. Hope that's okay. I couldn't find any cream, so it's black."
"Black is fine."
She handed me a mug, and our fingers brushed. Even that small contact sent heat through me. I wanted to pull her close, kiss her senseless, carry her back to bed and spend the whole day learning every inch of her body.
But there was something else underneath the want. Something old. Something familiar. Something cold and heavy that had been building since I woke up.
Dread. The kind that always showed up right before I destroyed everything.
This was too good.Shewas too good. And I knew—I knew—that I was going to ruin it. I ruined everything. It was only a matter of time.
"You okay?" She was watching me over the rim of her mug, a small furrow between her brows. "You look like you're thinking hard about something."
"I'm fine."
"Kai." She set down her coffee and moved closer, reaching up to touch my face. Her palm was warm against my jaw. "Talk to me. Whatever it is, you can tell me."
There was no accusation in her tone, only trust. And that somehow made it worse.
I should pull away. I should shut this down before it went any further. Before she got any deeper into my life, my head, my heart. But she was looking at me with those eyes—soft and open and trusting—and I couldn't do it. I couldn't push her away. Not yet.
"Let's sit," I said.
We moved to the couch. My body felt heavier with every step, like I already knew where this was heading. She curled up beside me, tucking her legs underneath her, close enough that I could feel her warmth. I stared at my coffee, trying to find the words. Words I’d spent years avoiding.
"You asked me once where I go," I said finally. "When I get that look."
She nodded but didn't speak. Just waited.
"I go back to Denver. To the job I used to have. The life I used to live." I took a breath. "The man I used to be."
"What happened?"
