The roads have cleared by morning, just like the radio promised. Just like I dreaded.

The storm's aftermath lies scattered across the landscape—broken branches, washed-out ditches, the occasional tree blocking half the road. Nothing my truck can't handle. Nothing to justify keeping her here another day.

I load Brynn's few belongings into the cab while she says goodbye to Ranger. The dog whines, pressing against her legs, sensing she's leaving. Smart animal. Smarter than me, maybe.

"It's okay, boy," she murmurs, kneeling despite her still-healing injuries to wrap her arms around his neck. "I'll see you again."

Will she, though? Once she's back in town, settled at her grandmother's, will she even remember the cabin in the woods? The man who found her in the storm?

The kiss that shouldn't have happened?

I slam the truck door harder than necessary, the sound cutting through the crisp morning air. Brynn looks up, her dark eyes finding mine. Neither of us has mentioned last night. Neither of us has acknowledged what happened on the porch, beside the fire, under the stars. Like if we don't speak of it, we can pretend it wasn't real.

But it was. Christ, it was.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice gruffer than intended.

She nods, giving Ranger one last scratch behind the ears before standing. She's wearing her own clothes today—jeans, a simple shirt, the jacket she arrived in, now clean and dry. She looks younger in the daylight, more vulnerable. The bruises on her face have faded to yellow-green, the cut on her temple now just a thin red line.

I've spent twenty-three years in war zones, seen gunshot wounds and blown-off limbs and death in a dozen forms. And yet somehow, those small marks on her pale skin affect me more than any battlefield injury ever did.

She climbs into the passenger seat, wincing slightly as she settles. Still sore, then. Still healing. I want to ask if she needs more time, another day to rest. But I know it's selfish. Know it's not about her recovery, but my reluctance to end whatever this is between us.

So I say nothing, just start the engine and ease down the rutted driveway, Ranger watching from the porch until we're out of sight.

For the first few miles, it's silent. I keep my eyes on the road, hands at ten and two like I'm teaching a driving lesson. Like if I let my guard down for a second, I'll give in to the urge to reach for her.

"Your car's a total loss," I say finally, just to break the silence. "Insurance should cover it, but it's not drivable."

"I figured." She looks out the window, watching the trees flash by. "I can deal with that later."

More silence. The truck's heater hums, fighting off the morning chill.

"How's the head?" I ask, glancing at her profile. The sunlight catches in her dark hair, bringing out hints of red I hadn't noticed before.

"Better." She touches the cut absently. "Your field medic skills are impressive."

A smile touches my lips before I can stop it. "Just doing my job."

"Is that all it was?" Her voice is soft, but the question lands like a grenade between us. "Just your job?"

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. "Brynn—"

"No, I get it," she cuts me off. "Last night was a mistake. You made that clear. I just..."

She trails off, and I fight the urge to pull over, to make her look at me while we have this conversation. But maybe it's better this way—her staring out the window, me watching the road. Safer.

"Just what?" I prompt when she doesn't continue.

"I just don't understand why it has to be."

"You're half my age." I say it flatly, like it's the whole answer. Like it's enough.

"So?"

"So it matters."

She turns then, those dark eyes finding mine. "To who? To you? Or to people who don't know either of us? Who don't know that I've never felt—"

She stops, biting her lip, eyes dropping to her hands in her lap.

"Never felt what?" My voice drops lower, rougher.

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. You're right. It was a mistake."

The words should satisfy me. Should ease the knot of tension in my chest. Instead, they carve out something hollow inside me. Something I don't want to examine too closely.

We crest a hill, and Whitethorn comes into view below—a small cluster of buildings nestled in the valley between mountain peaks. From this distance, it looks like something from a postcard.

"Your grandmother knows we're coming," I say, changing the subject. "Sheriff radioed her this morning."

Brynn nods, straightening in her seat as we descend into town. She's nervous, I realize. Worried about her grandmother's reaction to her injuries, maybe. Or perhaps just uncertain about whatever new life she's trying to build here, running from the boyfriend who betrayed her.

The thought of him—this nameless, faceless man who hurt her—sends a surge of anger through me that I have no right to feel. She's not mine to protect. Not mine to avenge.

Not mine at all.

We drive through town, past the diner, the sheriff's office, the general store where tourists buy overpriced "authentic mountain" souvenirs in the summer months. A few people wave as we pass. I lift a hand in acknowledgment, aware of the curious glances at my passenger. News travels fast in Whitethorn. By nightfall, everyone will know Knox Sullivan rescued a young woman in the storm. Brought her to his cabin. Kept her there for days.

The speculation will start immediately. The rumors. The judgment.

I shouldn't care. Haven't cared what people think in years. But for her sake, I find myself wishing for discretion.

"Left here," Brynn says, pointing to a side street.

"I know," I reply gently. "I visit your grandmother often enough."

A look of surprise crosses her face. "You do?"

"She's been bringing cookies to the base for years. I return the favor by checking on her in the winter, splitting wood, clearing snow. She's stubborn about accepting help."

"That sounds like Gran," Brynn says with a small smile.

I pull up in front of Meredith's familiar blue house with the white trim. The porch swing moves gently in the morning breeze, just like it always does. I've sat on that swing many times, listening to Meredith's stories while drinking her too-sweet lemonade. The flower boxes I built for her last spring look well-tended, bursting with late summer blooms.

Before I can shut off the engine, the front door flies open. Meredith hurries down the front walk, concern etched into every line of her face.

"Brynnie!" she calls, her voice strong despite her years. "Oh my stars, when the sheriff told me—"

Brynn is out of the truck in an instant, meeting her grandmother halfway up the walk. They collide in a fierce embrace, the older woman's arms wrapped tightly around her granddaughter despite being a head shorter.

"I'm okay, Gran," Brynn assures her, but there's a catch in her voice that makes something in my chest tighten. "Just a few scrapes."

"A few scrapes!" Meredith pulls back, cradling Brynn's face in her hands, examining the bruises with a nurse's practiced eye. "Sheriff Winters said your car went off the road! Said you were missing for hours in that storm!"

"I'm really okay," Brynn insists, but she lets her grandmother fuss, turning her face this way and that for inspection.

I stay by the truck, feeling suddenly like an intruder on their reunion. I should go. Drop the backpack with Brynn's things on the porch and leave without a word. That would be the smart move. The safe move.

Instead, I find myself walking toward them, drawn by some force I don't want to name.

Meredith spots me approaching and releases Brynn, her expression shifting from concern to gratitude in an instant.

"Knox Sullivan," she says, reaching for my hand with both of hers. "The sheriff told me you found her. Took care of her." Her grip is surprisingly strong for a woman her age. "Thank you. Thank you for bringing my girl home safe."

"Just doing my job, ma'am." The words feel hollow, insufficient.

"How many times must I tell you? It's Meredith, not ma'am," she corrects, still holding my hand. "After all these years and all you've done, I'd say we're well past formalities."

I nod, acutely aware of Brynn watching this exchange, her dark eyes moving between us. Does she see the lie in my words? The way "just doing my job" doesn't begin to cover what happened in that cabin?

"You'll stay for coffee," Meredith says.

"I should get back—"

"Nonsense." She waves off my protest like swatting a fly. "You drove all the way out here. Least I can do is offer you a hot cup and some breakfast. I've got fresh cinnamon rolls in the oven."

My stomach betrays me with a rumble at the mention of food. I'd been too distracted to eat before we left the cabin, too aware of Brynn moving around my space, packing up, preparing to leave.

"See? Settled." Meredith loops her arm through Brynn's, leading her toward the house. "Come along, Knox. I want to hear exactly how you found my granddaughter."

I follow, because refusing seems ruder than imposing. Because I'm not ready to say goodbye. Because a few more minutes in Brynn's presence won't change anything.

I step into the familiar warmth of Meredith's home, noticing as always the photos lining the walls. Now I look at them with new eyes, seeing Brynn's journey from gap-toothed child to the woman who stood on my porch last night. Trophies and medals from track competitions line the shelves. A family documented in frozen moments.

"Sit, sit," Meredith directs, guiding us to the kitchen table while she bustles around, pulling mugs from cabinets, checking the oven. "Brynnie, you know where everything is. Help Knox with the coffee while I get these rolls out."

Brynn moves to the cabinet near the sink, grabbing a canister of coffee. Our fingers brush as she hands it to me, a whisper of contact that shouldn't affect me the way it does. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment, then dart away.

"Cream's in the fridge," she says softly. "Sugar's by the stove."

"I remember," I say, having been in this kitchen dozens of times. I busy myself making coffee, grateful for the task. It's domestic in a way that feels too intimate after last night. After that kiss that still burns on my lips.

"Now then," Meredith says once we're all seated with steaming mugs and plates of cinnamon rolls that smell like heaven, "tell me everything. The sheriff was light on details—just said you found Brynn in the woods near your cabin."

I glance at Brynn, unsure how much she wants her grandmother to know. How much she's comfortable sharing.

"I crashed my car during the storm," Brynn begins, saving me from having to decide. "Tried to walk for help, but got lost. Fell down a ravine." She touches the healing cut on her temple. "Knox and his dog found me unconscious. Took me to his cabin since the roads were blocked."

The sanitized version. The safe version. Nothing about the tension during those two days. Nothing about conversation under starlight. Certainly nothing about a kiss that crossed every line I've ever drawn.

"Guardian angels come in all forms," Meredith says, reaching across to squeeze my hand briefly. "Some with badges, some with axes, some with four legs, I suppose."

There's a keenness in her gaze that makes me wonder if she sees more than she lets on. If those eyes, so like Brynn's, can read the guilt written across my conscience.

"Ranger deserves most of the credit," I say, steering the conversation to safer ground. "He found her. I just followed."

"How is that beautiful dog?" Meredith asks. "Still remembering those training lessons we worked on?"

I nod, surprised she recalls the summer she spent helping me train Ranger when he was still skittish around strangers. "He's doing well. Still wary of new people, but he took to Brynn instantly."

"Did he now?" Meredith's eyebrows lift, her gaze shifting between us with interest. "That dog has always been an excellent judge of character."

The observation lands too close to home, especially with Brynn watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. I clear my throat, shifting in my seat.

"How's the hip?" I ask, changing the subject. "Still giving you trouble after that fall last winter?"

"Oh, don't be silly." She waves a dismissive hand. "These old bones creak, but they keep moving. And I told you to stop fussing over that. It was a minor slip on the ice."

"A minor slip that left you stranded in the snow for an hour before I found you," I remind her, the memory of her pale face still sharp in my mind.

"Details, details." She turns to Brynn. "Your mountain man here tends to exaggerate."

Your mountain man. The phrase sends heat to the back of my neck, and I'm suddenly very interested in my coffee mug.

Conversation flows more easily after that, Meredith asking about recent SAR operations, telling Brynn about town gossip she's missed, occasionally losing her train of thought mid-sentence only to pick it up again moments later from a completely different angle. She's sharp but showing signs of her age—forgetting a name here, a date there.

Brynn watches her grandmother with a mixture of affection and concern, gently redirecting when needed, filling in gaps without making it obvious.

"The last rescue op, though," Meredith says, refilling my coffee without asking, "completely forgot to bring those banana muffins I promised. Remembered about midnight, far too late, of course. You tell Marcus I'll make it up to him next time. Double batch."

"He'll hold you to that," I say, smiling despite myself.

"As he should." She winks. "My muffins are worth waiting for."

The easy conversation, the warm kitchen, the smell of cinnamon—it's all dangerously comfortable. Makes me want things I have no business wanting. A place at this table. A right to the soft looks Brynn sends my way when she thinks I'm not watching.

Time to go. Before I forget all the reasons I should.

"I should head back," I say, pushing away from the table. "Got training exercises scheduled this afternoon."

"Of course, dear." Meredith stands with me. "But first, let me pack some of these rolls for you and that partner of yours."

Before I can protest, she's wrapping several rolls in foil, tucking them into a small paper bag. Her movements are efficient but slightly stiff, the arthritis in her hands evident in the careful way she folds the corners.

"And for that handsome dog of yours," she adds, dropping two dog biscuits from a jar on the counter into the bag.

"You don't have to—" I begin.

"Nonsense." She presses the bag into my hands, her grip surprisingly firm. "It's nothing compared to what I owe you for bringing my Brynnie home safe."

I take the bag, knowing better than to argue. "Thank you."

Brynn stands too, and for a moment, we all hover awkwardly in the kitchen, the goodbye hanging unspoken between us.

"I'll walk you out," Brynn says finally.

Meredith's eyes move between us, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'll just tidy up in here. Take your time."

Something about her tone makes me wonder again how much she sees. How much she suspects. But Brynn is already moving toward the door, and I follow, the paper bag clutched in my hand like some kind of lifeline.

Outside, the morning has warmed, sun burning away the last of the mist from the valley. Brynn stops at the edge of the porch, not quite looking at me.

"Thank you," she says, her voice soft. "For everything."

Inadequate words. We both know it.

"Just—"

"Doing your job. I know." Now she does look at me. "But it wasn't. Not all of it."

I should deny it. Should reinforce the boundary I tried to set last night. But I find myself unable to lie to her.

"No," I admit. "Not all of it."

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the vanilla in her hair, can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

"I meant what I said in the truck," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't care about the age difference."

"You should." My voice is rough. "The world does."

"Fuck the world." The curse sounds both wrong and right on her lips. "It's never done me any favors."

I almost smile at that. Almost reach for her. Almost throw every rational thought to the wind.

Instead, I take a step back. "You need time. To heal. To settle in. To figure out what you want from this fresh start of yours."

Disappointment flashes across her face, quickly masked. "And if what I want is you?"

The words hit me, stealing the breath from my lungs. No one has wanted me—really wanted me—in longer than I care to remember.

"Then you deserve better," I say, the words scraping my throat raw.

She makes a small sound of frustration. "Don't I get a say in that?"

"Brynn—"

"No, listen." She steps forward, closing the distance I tried to create. "I'm not asking for promises. I'm not asking for forever. I'm just asking for... I don't know. Something. Anything. A chance to see if this thing between us is real or just trauma and proximity and really bad timing."

She's so close now I can feel the heat of her, see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. I want to press my lips there. Want to feel that heartbeat against my mouth. Want things I have no right to want.

"You don't know me," I say, a last, desperate defense.

"I know enough." She reaches up, her hand hovering near my face, not quite touching. "I know you saved me. I know you took care of me. I know you kiss like you're drowning and I'm air."

Christ. The memory of it hits me full force—her taste, her softness, the small sounds she made against my mouth.

"And I know you're going to walk away right now," she continues, her hand falling back to her side. "Because you think it's the right thing to do. The noble thing."

She's right. Of course she's right.

"But I also know where to find you," she adds, a hint of challenge in her voice. "And I know what I want. The question is, are you brave enough to admit what you want?"

Before I can answer—before I can process the gauntlet she's just thrown down—the front door opens behind her.

"Everything all right out here?" Meredith calls, her tone innocent but her timing suspicious.

Brynn steps back, a rueful smile touching her lips. "Perfect timing, Gran."

"Well, I just wanted to thank Knox once more before he left." Meredith comes to stand beside her granddaughter, looping an arm around her waist. "You're always welcome here, young man. Any time. Day or night."

The invitation carries a weight I'm not sure she intends. Or perhaps she knows exactly what she's doing.

"Thank you," I say, nodding to them both. "For the coffee. And the rolls."

"Anytime," Meredith repeats, her keen gaze moving between us. "My Brynnie tells me you have the best view of the stars from your place. Perhaps you'll show us sometime."

Beside her, Brynn's cheeks flush, but her eyes hold mine steadily. She told her grandmother about the stars. About sitting on my porch. How much else did she share?

"Perhaps," I agree noncommittally. "Take care, Meredith. Brynn."

I nod to them both, then turn and walk to my truck before I can change my mind. Before I can do something stupid like agree to whatever Brynn is offering. Whatever her grandmother seems to be encouraging.

In the rearview mirror, I watch them standing on the porch, Meredith's arm still around Brynn's waist, both watching me drive away. Two generations of Fletcher women, both too perceptive for my comfort.

I turn the corner, and they disappear from view. Something in my chest constricts, a physical pain I refuse to name.

It's done. I fulfilled my duty. Rescued the girl, returned her safely to her family. Case closed. Mission complete. I can go back to my cabin, back to my solitude, back to a life that was perfectly adequate before Brynn Fletcher stumbled into it.

Except now that life feels hollow. Emptier than before. Like she took something essential with her when she walked into that blue house. Something I didn't know I had to give.

I drive through town, nodding to the sheriff as I pass, stopping briefly at the general store for supplies. Everyone asks about "the girl in the storm." I give minimal answers.

No one needs to know about the fire on the porch. The stars overhead. The way she tasted like wine.

By the time I reach the cabin, the sun is high overhead. Ranger greets me at the door, his tail wagging furiously, his nose immediately going to the bag in my hand.

"From Meredith," I tell him, handing over one of the dog biscuits. "She remembers you."

He takes it gently, retreating to his bed to enjoy his prize. I stand in the doorway, looking at my space with new eyes. The couch where Brynn slept. The kitchen where we cooked together. The empty air that still somehow holds the echo of her laughter.

It's too quiet now. Too still. Like the silence after an explosion, when your ears are ringing and the world seems muffled and wrong.

I force myself into motion, into routine. Clean my gear. Check supplies. Radio Marcus about the afternoon's training session. Normal tasks. Familiar rhythm. Nothing to indicate that anything has changed.

Except everything has.

The bed still smells like her when I strip the sheets. Vanilla and something uniquely Brynn. I should wash them immediately. Should erase every trace of her from this space.

Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the mattress, a pillow in my hands, her scent surrounding me. Remembering the way she challenged me on the porch this morning. The fire in her eyes when she said she knew what she wanted.

The question is, are you brave enough to admit what you want?

The answer should be simple. I'm forty-seven years old. Too old for her. Too damaged. Too set in my ways. I've been alone so long I've forgotten how to be anything else.

And yet, I can still feel her lips against mine. Can still hear the small sound she made when I pulled her closer. Can still see the way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting.

Dangerous thoughts. Selfish thoughts.

I toss the pillow aside, stripping the bed. The sheets go into the wash. The pillowcases too. Every trace of Brynn Fletcher scrubbed from my space, if not from my memory.

It's the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

So why does it feel so wrong?

Outside, clouds gather on the horizon, the promise of another storm. Inside, the cabin echoes with an emptiness I've never noticed before. Ranger whines from his bed, sensing my mood.

"She's gone," I tell him, as much a reminder to myself as to him. "Back where she belongs."

Not here. Not with me. Not in this life I've built specifically to keep people at a distance.

I think of Meredith Fletcher's knowing eyes. Of her subtle invitation. Of Brynn standing on that porch, challenging me to admit what I want.

What do I want?

The question follows me through the day, through chores and tasks and preparation for the training exercise. Through the radio call with Marcus, who asks too many questions about "the rescue girl" and seems too interested in my clipped answers.

What do I want?

The answer comes as night falls, as I sit alone on the porch where I kissed her, beer in hand, watching stars appear one by one in the darkening sky.

I want things I can't have. Shouldn't have. A girl half my age with fire in her eyes and courage in her heart. A second chance I don't deserve. A life less empty than the one I've built for myself.

But wanting isn't having. Desire isn't action. And some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.

I drain my beer, go inside, and shut the door on the stars she found so beautiful. On possibilities I have no right to explore. On the memory of Brynn Fletcher and everything she stirred to life inside me.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to who I was before the storm. Before her. It's the only way forward that makes any sense.

I almost believe it.