Watching.
“Keep looking,” Ethan says.
I drag my gaze away from the footprints and force myself to scan the surrounding area the way he does, slow and intentional. At first, it’s just trees and shadows and branches, but then something catches my eye, a break in the pattern that shouldn’t be there.
A snapped limb.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
“That?” I point.
He nods once. “Good.”
I push to my feet and step toward it, reaching out to brush my fingers along the break. The wood feels fresh, recently snapped.
“The wind didn’t do that,” I say.
“No.”
“This way,” he says, already moving.
I follow him deeper into the trees, the cabin disappearing behind us faster than I like. “You sure this is smart?” I ask.
“No.”
“Reassuring.”
“But it’s necessary.”
I huff out a breath but keep moving, because I need to see this, need to understand what’s happening instead of guessing.
He moves through the forest like he belongs to it, every step quiet, controlled, placed with purpose. I try to match him, but it’s harder than it looks. Branches snap under my boots. Leaves crunch. Every sound feels too loud.
“You’re loud,” he says without turning.
“Sorry I wasn’t trained in woodland stalking.”
“You were trained to observe.”
“That’s different.”
“Not really.”
He stops suddenly, and I nearly run into him. My hand shoots out on instinct, catching his arm to steady myself, and the contact is immediate and solid, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way that feels like too much.
I pull back quickly.
“Watch it,” he says.
“You stopped.”
“Because you’re about to walk right into his path.”
That lands harder than anything else so far.
“Show me,” I say.
He steps aside slightly, giving me a clear view, and at first I don’t see it. Then the pattern comes together, subtle but unmistakable. Broken twigs. Disturbed leaves. A line through the forest that doesn’t belong.
