The storm hasn't let up by morning. Not that I expect it to.

I stand at the window, coffee mug in hand, watching sheets of rain pummel the already saturated ground. The radio crackles with updates from the road crew—another twelve hours minimum before the pass clears. Possibly longer.

Which means another day trapped in this cabin with her.

I take a long sip, welcoming the bitter burn down my throat. It's been years since I've had a woman in my space. Years since I've wanted one here. The solitude suits me, or it did until Brynn Fletcher stumbled into my life, unconscious and bleeding in the middle of a storm.

Now she sleeps on my couch, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, her breathing deep and even. The bruise on her cheek has darkened overnight, a purple-blue stain against her pale skin. The sight of it triggers something primal in me, a protective instinct I thought I'd buried along with my military career.

Ranger lies beside the couch, his head resting on his paws, eyes fixed on her sleeping form. My normally standoffish dog hasn't left her side since we brought her in. It's unsettling. Ranger doesn't trust easily—a trait we share.

"She's trouble," I tell him quietly. "Don't get attached."

He flicks an ear in my direction but doesn't move.

Traitor.

A soft groan pulls my attention back to Brynn. She shifts, wincing even in sleep as her battered body protests the movement. The quilt slips from her shoulder, revealing the collar of my flannel shirt that she's wearing over her own clothes for extra warmth.

I turn away, focusing on the rain. The less I look at her, the easier it is to ignore the unwelcome heat that pools in my gut when I do.

Twenty-three years in the Army Rangers taught me control. Discipline. How to compartmentalize unwanted emotions and lock them away. But something about this woman—this stranger half my age—tests limits I didn't know could be tested.

It's just biology, I tell myself. Basic chemistry. The isolation of the mountains. The intensity of a rescue. Nothing more.

"Knox?"

Her voice, rough with sleep, washes over me. I turn, keeping my expression neutral as I meet her eyes—dark brown, still hazy with sleep and pain.

"Roads are still blocked," I say, answering the question she hasn't asked. "Another day at least."

She pushes herself up to sitting, wincing at the movement. She tugs my flannel shirt tighter around herself. Nothing revealing, but my body reacts like I've seen far more.

"How's the head?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

"It feels like an army's using it for marching practice."

I set down my coffee and cross to where I keep the first aid supplies. "Time for fresh bandages."

She watches me approach, wariness flickering across her features before she masks it. The hesitation is instinctive, ingrained. The kind that comes from experience, not paranoia. I've seen it before, in civilians in war zones, in rescue victims, in my own reflection after my ex left.

I sit on the coffee table across from her, careful to telegraph my movements. "May I?"

A nod. Permission granted.

I reach for the bandage on her temple, my fingers brushing against her skin as I peel back the tape. The cut beneath looks better than it did yesterday—still angry and red, but the edges are starting to heal. No signs of infection.

"Good," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

"Your professional opinion, Dr. Sullivan?" There's a hint of teasing in her voice that catches me off guard.

"Field medic, not doctor," I correct, reaching for the antiseptic. "But it's healing."

She hisses through her teeth when the antiseptic hits the wound.

"Sorry," I say.

"Don't be." Her eyes find mine, direct and challenging. "I'm not fragile."

Something in her tone suggests she's had to say those words to prove that point before.

"Never thought you were." I apply a fresh bandage, smoothing the tape with a touch that's gentler than necessary. "Anyone who survives what you did has steel in their spine."

I finish and move to stand, but her hand catches my wrist. Her fingers are small against my skin, but the contact sends a jolt through me that I haven't felt in years.

"Thank you," she says, releasing me quickly. "For saving me. For this." She gestures vaguely around the cabin. "All of it."

I nod once, retreating to a safer distance. "Hungry?"

"Starving, actually."

The smile she gives me is genuine this time, transforming her face in a way that makes my chest tighten. Christ, she's young. Too young for the thoughts currently running through my head.

I busy myself in the kitchen, pulling out eggs, bacon, the last of the sourdough bread. Simple tasks to focus on instead of the woman watching me from the couch.

"Can I help?" she asks, standing slowly.

"Sit," I say, harsher than intended. "Head injury means rest."

She ignores me, making her way to the kitchen table on unsteady legs. "I'll go crazy if I have to lie there any longer." She settles into a chair. "At least let me keep you company while you cook."

I don't argue. The stubbornness in her expression tells me it would be pointless.

Ranger pads over, settling at her feet like he's known her for years. She reaches down to scratch behind his ears, her fingers finding exactly the right spot without having to search for it.

"He doesn't usually take to strangers," I say, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Especially women."

"No?" She looks down at the dog, who's practically melting under her touch. "Why's that?"

I hesitate, weighing how much to share. "He was a rescue. Previous owner was a woman. Used to beat him when she was drunk."

Brynn's eyes darken with anger. "That's fucking terrible."

"It was." I focus on whisking the eggs. "Found him during a rescue operation—owner was lost in the woods. By the time we found her, he was half-starved and terrified. She wanted nothing to do with him after we got her out."

"So you took him in."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "He needed someone. I had the space."

"You two are a matched set," she says finally.

"How's that?"

"Intimidating on the outside. Secretly soft on the inside."

I scoff, turning to the stove. "Don't let the Search and Rescue team hear you say that. I have a reputation to maintain."

Her laugh is unexpected, a soft, genuine sound that seems to fill the cabin. "Your secret's safe with me, Knox Sullivan."

The way she says my name shouldn't affect me the way it does. Shouldn't make me want to hear it again under different circumstances.

I focus on cooking, on the sizzle of bacon in the pan, on anything but the woman sitting at my table wearing my shirt over her clothes, her dark hair tousled from sleep.

"So," she says after a moment, "what brought you out here? To the middle of nowhere?"

A loaded question. "Needed the quiet," I say simply.

"After the military?"

I glance at her, surprised. "How'd you know?"

"The way you move." She shrugs. "The first aid supplies organized like a field kit. The haircut." A small smile plays at her lips. "Plus there's the whole 'sir, yes sir' vibe you've got going on."

"Twenty-three years," I confirm, flipping the bacon. "Army Rangers."

"That's a long time."

"It was." I don't elaborate. Don't tell her about the deserts and mountains and jungles I've navigated. The men I've lost. The parts of myself I left behind in various hellholes around the globe.

She doesn't push, just watches me with those too-perceptive eyes. It's unnerving, being seen by someone. Really seen. Most people in town avoid direct eye contact, intimidated by my size, my silence, the rumors that circulate about my past.

Not Brynn. She looks at me like she's trying to read a book written in a language she almost understands.

I plate the food and set it in front of her, then take the seat opposite. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. I watch her from the corner of my eye, noting how she savors each bite like it's her first meal in days. Maybe it is.

"So," I say, breaking the silence, "what brought you to Whitethorn?"

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Something shutters in her expression. "Visiting Gran," she says, the lightness in her tone forced. "It's been a while."

A lie, or at least not the whole truth. I don't call her on it. Everyone's entitled to their secrets. Lord knows I have enough of my own.

"She'll be glad to see you," I say instead. "Your grandmother's well-respected in town."

"She's the best person I know." The warmth in Brynn's voice is genuine. "Raised me after my parents died."

The casual mention of loss, stated as a simple fact rather than a plea for sympathy, resonates with me more than it should.

"That couldn't have been easy," I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. "For either of you."

"It wasn't." She pushes eggs around her plate. "But we managed."

The conversation lulls into silence again, but it's oddly comfortable. She finishes eating and insists on helping with the dishes despite my objections.

"I'm not an invalid," she says, taking a plate from my hand. "And I hate feeling useless."

We work side by side, her washing, me drying. The domesticity of it is strange, like slipping into someone else's life for a moment. A life where I'm not alone in these mountains, where there's someone to share meals and mundane tasks with.

Dangerous thoughts.

"You have a son."

It's not a question.

My gaze snaps to where she's looking—the photo on the shelf. I'm in it, young and terrified, cradling a newborn swaddled so tight you can barely see his face.

I grunt an acknowledgment, taking the last plate from her hands. "We're not close."

"I'm sorry." Her voice is soft, free of the pity I usually hear when people discover my estrangement from my only child.

"His choice," I say, more sharply than intended. "His mother's influence."

Why am I telling her this? I never discuss Noah, not even with Marcus, the closest thing I have to a friend in Whitethorn.

"Divorce?" she asks, drying her hands on a towel.

"Ten years ago." I put away the last dish, needing something to do with my hands. "She got remarried. Moved to California with him."

Understanding flickers in her eyes, followed by something else—hesitation, maybe. Like she wants to ask more but isn't sure she should.

"My ex wanted the big city life." I find myself continuing, unable to stop now that I've started. "The social scene. The career. I wanted... this." I gesture to the cabin, the mountains beyond. "We were pulling in opposite directions for years before we finally snapped."

"So you came here."

"After I got out, yeah." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "Didn't know where else to go."

She nods, like she understands exactly what it's like to be untethered, to drift until you find somewhere quiet enough to hear yourself think again.

"How's the road looking?" she asks, changing the subject.

"Storm's supposed to pass later today. But the roads..." I shake my head. "Tree down across the main route. Crew's working on it, but with the mud and the gradient, they're estimating another day at least."

"I should call Gran," she says. "Let her know I'm okay."

"Already taken care of. Sheriff radioed that they sent someone to tell her you're still here."

A small smile touches her lips. "Small town efficiency."

"One of the benefits." I push away from the counter. "We should check your car, see if it's salvageable. Once you're feeling up to it."

"I'm up to it now."

I raise an eyebrow, taking in her pale complexion, the way she's subtly leaning against the counter for support. "Bullshit."

She laughs, the sound unexpected and bright. "Okay, maybe tomorrow. If the roads are still blocked."

"They will be." I'm more certain of this than I should be. More invested in keeping her here than I have any right to be.

Brynn moves toward the living room, but her legs buckle halfway there. I'm at her side in an instant, one arm around her waist, steadying her. She feels impossibly small against me, impossibly warm.

"I've got you," I murmur, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She looks up at me, her face inches from mine, close enough that I can see flecks of gold in her dark eyes. Close enough that I could bend down and—

No. Absolutely not.

I help her to the couch, stepping back as soon as she's seated, putting necessary distance between us.

"Rest," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Doctor's orders."

"Field medic," she corrects, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Same difference." I turn away, needing to be somewhere else, anywhere but caught in the gravity of her gaze. "I need to split more firewood. Radio if you need me."

I don't wait for her response, just grab my jacket and escape into the rain, welcoming its cold slap against my overheated skin.

Outside, the physical labor of splitting wood provides the distraction I need. The rhythmic swing of the axe, the satisfying crack as it bites into the logs, the strain in my muscles—it all helps clear my head of thoughts I shouldn't be having.

She's half my age.

Crack.

She's injured and dependent on my help.

Crack.

She's a guest in my home.

Crack.

I'm old enough to be her father, for Christ's sake.

Crack.

The last thought brings me up short, the axe suspended mid-swing. Not just her father. Noah's father. My son, who's probably close to her age.

The thought acts like a bucket of ice water, dousing whatever inappropriate heat had been building. This is temporary. In a day, maybe two, the roads will clear, and I'll drive her to Whitethorn. Drop her at her grandmother's house. Return to my solitude.

And forget about the way her laughter fills the empty spaces in my cabin. The way Ranger trusts her without hesitation. The way she looks at me like she's not afraid—of my size, my scars, my silence.

I split wood until my arms ache, until sweat mingles with rain on my skin despite the cold. Until I'm certain I've exhausted whatever madness had taken hold of me inside.

When I finally return to the cabin, arms laden with split logs, she's asleep on the couch again, a book open on her chest. One of mine—"Call of the Wild." Her fingers rest loosely on the pages, her breathing deep and even.

Ranger looks up from his position by her feet, his eyes holding an accusation I refuse to acknowledge.

"Don't start," I mutter, stacking the wood by the stove.

I move quietly around the cabin, mindful not to wake her. The radio crackles with updates—the road crews encountering more obstacles than expected. Another day, at least, before the pass clears.

I should be frustrated by the delay. Instead, I feel a relief that I quickly smother.

This is a mission, I remind myself. A rescue. Nothing more. I've done hundreds of rescues over the years. This one isn't special just because she laughs at my gruffness instead of flinching from it. Just because she talks to my dog like he understands every word.

Just because she looks at me and sees past the walls I've spent years constructing.

I take a beer from the fridge and step onto the covered porch, watching the rain start to taper off as evening approaches. The storm is finally breaking, the clouds thinning enough to show patches of darkening sky between them.

Like the storm inside me, I think, and immediately curse myself for the thought.

My ex always said I was too intense, too brooding, too much in my head. One of the many faults she cited in the divorce papers, alongside emotional unavailability and prioritizing work over family.

She wasn't wrong. I know that. I'm not built for softness, for openness. I'm built for withstanding storms, for endurance, for solitude.

So why does the thought of returning to that solitude after Brynn leaves feel so much like loss?

The question hangs unanswered as I watch the last light fade from the sky, clouds parting to reveal the first stars of evening. Behind me, through the window, I can see her still sleeping on the couch, peaceful despite her injuries, despite being stranded with a stranger.

Tomorrow, I'll check her car. Tomorrow, I'll maintain proper distance, professional detachment. Tomorrow, I'll remember all the reasons why the heat that flares between us can never be acknowledged, let alone acted upon.

But tonight, just for this moment, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if circumstances were different. If I were different. If I were the kind of man who deserved a second chance at the things I've lost.

The kind of man who could reach for warmth instead of turning away from it.

The thought is there and gone, carried away on the wind that chases the last of the storm clouds across the darkening sky. Impossible. Unwise. Unwanted.

I drain my beer and turn back to the cabin, to the woman sleeping inside, to the temporary disruption in a life I've carefully constructed to need no one at all.

One more day, maybe two. That's all. Then everything returns to normal.

I almost believe it.