Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
And I needed this moment.
The light stretches across the peaks in soft gold, slipping through the evergreens and catching on the rocks in a way that makes everything look untouched. For a second, it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to this one place, this one breath, this one still point where nothing is chasing me anymore.
“Got you,” I murmur under my breath, lifting the camera and snapping a photo of the valley below.
The click echoes faintly.
And then another one answers it.
Behind me.
I don’t turn right away. I let the smile settle in first, let it deepen just slightly, because there’s something about knowing he’s there that doesn’t make me tense anymore. It does the opposite.
“You’re getting sloppy,” I call out, lowering my camera.
There’s a beat, just enough to stretch the moment.
Then, “You noticed.”
His voice is low and familiar and exactly where I knew it would be.
I turn slowly, lifting one brow as I find him a few yards back, leaning against a tree like he’s been there the whole time, like the mountain itself placed him there. He has his camera in his hand, but his focus isn’t on the view.
It’s on me.
“You’re losing your edge, Ranger,” I say, stepping carefully toward him, the uneven ground forcing me to slow my pace.
His gaze drops immediately to my footing, then to my face, tracking every movement the way he always does.
“You shouldn’t be climbing out here alone,” he says, pushing off the tree and closing the distance between us with that same slow, deliberate stride that still manages to feel inevitable.
I don’t stop him.
“I’m not alone,” I shoot back. “You’ve been following me the whole way up.”
“Watching.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
I huff out a quiet laugh as he reaches me, his hand coming to my waist like it belongs there, steadying me without asking, without hesitation. It’s instinct now, for both of us, and I don’t fight it. I lean into it just slightly, enough that he feels it.
“You’ve been shadowing me since I left the trailhead,” I say.
“You hike too fast. You don’t watch your footing when you’re distracted.”
I tilt my head, giving him a look. “You’re the distraction.”
His mouth curves, just a little, and something in my chest warms at the sight of it.
“Good,” he says.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling now, unable to stop it. The tension that used to sit between us, sharp and constant, has shifted into something else. It’s still there, still electric, still alive, but it’s not a fight anymore.
It’s something we both chose.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.
“And you came up here anyway.”
“Maybe I like the view.”
His gaze drags over me slowly, not subtle in the slightest. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
Heat creeps up my spine, but I don’t look away. I don’t pretend I don’t feel it.
Instead, I reach out and take his camera right out of his hands.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“You’ve been taking pictures of me all morning,” I say, flipping it around. “Figured it’s my turn.”
His brow lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I take a step back, framing him in the shot, and for a second I just look. Not through the lens, but at him. The way he stands, grounded and solid, like the mountain belongs to him. Like he belongs to it.
Like I do now, too.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You going to take the picture?”
“Maybe.”
His mouth curves again, that quiet confidence that used to irritate me and now just pulls something deeper out of me.
“Or maybe you just like looking at me.”
“Don’t push it.”
I snap the photo anyway, then another, the clicks echoing softly around us.
“Only when it matters,” I add, lowering the camera.
His eyes darken slightly at that, something in them shifting as the words land.
I step back toward him, handing the camera over without breaking eye contact.
“You’re still watching me,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“You ever going to stop?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate, certain, and I don’t argue with it.
I step closer, closing the last of the space between us, and this time it feels intentional. Chosen.
“Good,” I murmur.
His hand comes back to my waist, then slides slightly higher, holding me there in a way that feels steady, not restrictive. Grounding, not controlling.
“You happy?” he asks.
The question is quieter than anything else he’s said. More careful.
And it hits deeper than anything else could.
I don’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say.
Because it’s true.
Because it’s mine.
Because I chose it.
He studies me for a long second, like he’s making sure I mean it, like he needs to see it in my face as much as hear it in my voice.
Then something shifts in him.
Not tension. Not hesitation.
Decision.
“Good,” he says.
Before I can ask what that means, he steps back just enough to crouch down, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he pulls a piece of twine from the side of his pack. I blink, caught off guard, watching as he works it between his fingers, looping it, tightening it, shaping it into something deliberate.