I wake to the sound of rain and the unfamiliar sensation of being watched.

My eyes refuse to open at first, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. My head throbs with each heartbeat. My body feels like it's been thrown from a cliff.

Maybe it has.

I can't remember.

When I finally force my eyes open, I'm staring at a ceiling I don't recognize. Rough-hewn beams. A cast-iron light fixture that's not illuminated. Morning light streams through windows I can't see from my position.

This isn't Gran's house. This isn't anywhere I know.

Panic surges through me, adrenaline cutting through the fog of pain. I try to sit up, but my body protests violently. The room spins. Nausea rolls through me in a sickening wave.

"Easy." A deep voice from somewhere to my right. "You've got a concussion."

I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs as I turn my head—slowly, painfully—toward the voice.

A man sits in an armchair across from me. Tall, from what I can tell. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair with streaks of silver at the temples. Beard, trimmed short. He watches me with careful gray eyes that give nothing away.

I don't know him. I've never seen him before.

Panic morphs into something close to terror.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out as a rasp, my throat dry. "Where am I?"

"Knox Sullivan." He doesn't move from the chair, keeping his distance. Like he knows I'm scared. Like he's trying not to make it worse. "You're in my cabin. About thirty miles northwest of Whitethorn."

Thirty miles? How the hell did I get thirty miles off course?

Fragments of my memory resurface. The crash. Walking in the rain. The fall. The light through the trees.

I try to sit up again, slower this time. My head swims, but I manage to prop myself against the arm of what I now realize is a couch. A thick quilt falls away from my shoulders. I'm wearing a black flannel shirt that reaches mid-thigh, and nothing else. The fact that I can't remember how I got into it makes my skin crawl.

"My clothes," I begin, then stop, unsure how to ask if he undressed me while I was unconscious.

"Were soaked through. You were hypothermic, so I did what was necessary to get you warm and dry. Nothing more."

I want to believe him. There's something in the steadiness of his gaze that suggests he's telling the truth. But I've believed men before. Trusted them. Look where that got me.

"Your clothes are in the dryer," he adds, nodding toward a doorway that presumably leads to a laundry room. "Should be done soon."

I pull the quilt up higher, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. My legs are bare, bruised and scraped from the fall. The shirt covers the essentials, but still.

"Thank you," I manage, because whatever happened, he at least brought me in from the storm. "For helping me."

He nods once, a barely perceptible dip of his chin. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Pieces." I touch the side of my head gingerly, finding a bandage there. "I crashed my car. Tried to walk for help. There was a deer at some point, I think."

"My dog found you, about a quarter mile from here. You were unconscious, bleeding, and half-frozen." His voice remains even. "The storm took out the roads and the phone lines. I brought you here to warm up and treat your injuries."

A sudden movement at my side makes me flinch. A large German Shepherd appears from wherever he's been hiding, padding silently to stand beside the couch.

"That's Ranger," Knox says, a hint of warmth entering his voice for the first time. "He's the one who found you."

I extend a tentative hand, expecting the dog to shy away or maybe even growl. Instead, he moves forward and pushes his muzzle against my palm.

"Hi, Ranger," I murmur, surprised by the immediate connection. "Thanks for the rescue."

He wags his tail once, then settles onto the floor beside the couch, his body pressed against the base like he's standing guard.

"That's unusual," Knox comments, something like surprise flickering across his otherwise impassive face. "He doesn't trust easily."

Neither do I, I want to say, but the words stick in my throat.

"How long have I been here?" I ask instead, looking for a clock, a phone, anything to orient me.

"About fourteen hours. It's just past nine in the morning."

"Nine in the," I struggle to put together the timeline. "I crashed yesterday evening."

He nods. "You've been in and out a few times during the night. Not coherent. I kept waking you to check your pupils. Standard protocol for head injuries."

That explains the strange fragments of memory. A touch on my face, a light in my eyes, a voice asking me questions I couldn't understand.

My gaze drops to my bare wrist. "Where's my watch?"

He shakes his head. "There was nothing on you when I found you. No phone, no bag. Just the clothes you were wearing."

Fuck.

"My grandmother," I say suddenly, remembering why I was on that road in the first place. "She's expecting me. She'll be worried."

"The phone lines are still down. Cell service too." He gestures to a window, where I can see rain still falling, though not as violently as yesterday. "The storm's easing, but the roads will be blocked for at least another day, according to the radio."

Trapped. I'm trapped in a remote cabin with a stranger. A very large, very male stranger who apparently undressed me while I was unconscious.

But also saved my life.

The conflict must show on my face, because something in his expression shifts.

"I'll give you some privacy," he says, standing in one fluid motion that speaks of military training or something similar. "Bathroom's through there if you need it. Kitchen's behind me. Help yourself to anything. I'll be outside, checking the generator."

He moves toward the door, Ranger following reluctantly, looking back at me as if torn between staying with me and following his master.

"Wait," I call, just as Knox reaches for the door handle. He pauses, not turning. "What am I supposed to call you? Knox? Mr. Sullivan?"

A strange tension seems to radiate from his shoulders for a moment before he answers.

"Knox is fine."

Then he's gone, the door closing firmly behind him. I'm alone in a stranger's cabin, wearing a stranger's clothes, with no way to contact anyone who knows me.

Experimentally, I swing my legs over the edge of the couch, testing my stability. The room tilts slightly, but remains mostly stationary. I push myself to standing, gripping the arm of the couch until I'm sure I won't fall.

The cabin is rustic but well-maintained. Open floor plan, with the living area where I've been sleeping connecting to the kitchen with a large wooden table. Large windows showcase dense forest and mountains beyond, the view partially obscured by rain and low-hanging clouds.

It's beautiful in a stark, isolated way. The kind of place you go when you want to disappear from the world.

I hobble to the bathroom, each step sending fresh aches through my battered body. The face that greets me in the mirror is almost unrecognizable. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, a nasty-looking bruise spreading across my left cheek. The bandage on my temple covers what must be the cut I vaguely remember getting when I fell.

My hair is a disaster, tangled and still slightly damp in places. I finger-comb it as best I can, then splash water on my face, careful to avoid the bandage.

When I exit the bathroom, Knox is still outside. I take the opportunity to inspect the cabin more thoroughly, looking for clues about the man who rescued me.

The place is neat, almost to the point of feeling bare. No family photos from what I can see, no personal touches beyond a bookshelf stocked with military history, survival guides, and what looks like well-worn classic literature. A few carved wooden figurines sit on the mantle above the woodstove. A bear, an eagle, a wolf. They're beautifully detailed, obviously handmade.

In the kitchen, coffee burbles in an ancient-looking percolator. I help myself to a mug, grateful for the warmth and caffeine. It's strong enough to strip paint, but somehow exactly what I need.

I'm standing by the window, watching the rain and sipping coffee, when the door opens again. Knox enters, followed by a rush of cold air. Ranger shakes himself, sending water droplets flying.

"Generator's fine," he reports, though I haven't asked. "Roads are still blocked. Landline's dead."

I nod, unsure what to say. Up close, in the daylight, I can see him more clearly. He's older than I initially thought. Mid-forties, maybe. The lines around his eyes and mouth speak of experience, not all of it good. There's a hardness to him that suggests he's seen things most people haven't.

He's also, objectively speaking, attractive in a rugged sort of way that makes something flutter low in my belly. Broad shoulders that fill out his flannel shirt. Strong forearms exposed where he's rolled up his sleeves. A jawline that could cut glass, partially obscured by the short beard.

I look away, irritated with myself. Less than forty-eight hours ago, I caught my boyfriend of four years screwing my friend. The last thing I should be doing is noticing another man's forearms.

"How's the head?" he asks, moving to the kitchen and pouring himself coffee.

"Still attached," I reply, then wince at my own flippancy. "Sorry. It hurts, but I'll live. Thanks to you."

He shrugs, like saving unconscious women in the woods is just another Tuesday for him. Maybe it is.

"What do you do for work then? All the way out here?" I ask.

"Search and Rescue coordinator," he says. "For the county. Ranger and I were running a training exercise when he found you."

"Lucky coincidence."

His mouth quirks up at one corner, not quite a smile. "No such thing as coincidence in these mountains."

An awkward silence falls between us. I sip my coffee. He sips his. The rain drums on the roof.

"Your clothes should be dry," he says finally, setting down his mug. "I'll get them."

He returns a moment later with a neatly folded stack. My jeans, t-shirt, bra, and underwear. I take them without meeting his eyes, my cheeks burning at the knowledge that he's handled my most intimate garments.

"Thank you," I say stiffly. "I'll just go change."

In the bathroom, I peel off his flannel shirt and pull on my own clothes. They're warm from the dryer, a small comfort against my aching body. I fold his shirt neatly and place it in the hamper I spot in the corner, unsure what else to do with it.

When I emerge, Knox is at the stove, cracking eggs into a cast-iron skillet.

"You should eat," he says, not turning around. "When was the last time you had food?"

I try to remember. Not since I left California, really. Just coffee and a few bites of a granola bar somewhere in Oregon.

"I don't remember," I admit.

He nods like this confirms something, continuing to cook in silence. I hover awkwardly, unsure where to put myself in a stranger's space.

"Sit," he says, nodding toward the table. It's not quite an order, but not quite a suggestion either.

I sit. A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Simple but filling. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud at the sight.

He sits across from me with his own plate, and we eat in silence that's not quite comfortable but not entirely awkward either.

"So," I say when my plate is half-empty, "I'm Brynn Fletcher. In case you were wondering."

"I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

"You didn't check my wallet?" I ask, surprised. That would have been my first move if I'd found an unconscious stranger.

"Couldn't. It wasn't in your pockets when I found you. Must have fallen out during your tumble down the ravine."

Great. No wallet, no phone, no car. I'm completely dependent on this stranger's goodwill until the roads clear.

"I was headed to my grandmother's house in Whitethorn," I explain, feeling like I owe him at least this much information. "Got lost when my GPS died. Then the deer, the crash, the walking in the rain." I wave my hand vaguely. "Here we are."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Meredith Fletcher is your grandmother?"

I blink, surprised. "You know Gran?"

"Everyone at Search and Rescue knows Meredith." There's a hint of genuine warmth in his voice. "She brings cookies to the base every month. Best damn snickerdoodles I've ever had."

A smile tugs at my lips, the first real one since I woke up. "That sounds like Gran."

"So you're the granddaughter she's always talking about," he adds, studying me with new interest. "The one who moved to California."

"That's me," I confirm, a little surprised Gran mentions me to others. "Left when I was eighteen to go study there. Then decided to come back." Jesus, why am I telling this to a stranger? I think, looking down at my plate.

Knox nods, accepting this information without pressing for details. I'm grateful for his lack of curiosity. The last thing I want to do is explain to this stoic mountain man why I fled Southern California like my life depended on it.

"The sheriff's office knows you're here," he says. "As soon as the roads clear, I'll drive you to your grandmother's."

Relief washes through me. "Thank you. I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not." He says it simply, matter-of-factly, then stands and takes our empty plates to the sink.

I watch him move around the kitchen, efficient and self-contained. There's something compelling about a man so comfortable in his own space, in his own skin. Noah was always restless, always seeking the next dopamine hit, the next validation, the next thrill.

Knox seems like a man who could stand perfectly still in a storm and not be moved.

The thought brings an unwelcome heat to my cheeks. I look away, focusing on Ranger instead. The dog has positioned himself at my feet, his large head resting on his paws.

"He likes you," Knox comments, noticing the dog's position.

"Animals usually do," I say, reaching down to scratch behind Ranger's ears. The dog's eyes close in bliss. "People are the problem."

The words slip out before I can stop them. Knox pauses in his dish-washing, looking at me over his shoulder with an expression I can't read.

"Sometimes," he agrees, then turns back to the sink.

The radio on the counter crackles to life, making me jump. A male voice emerges from the static.

"Knox, you there? Over."

Knox dries his hands and picks up the radio. "Go ahead, Marcus."

"Road crews say Cascade Pass might be clear by tomorrow morning. Sheriff's asking for an update on your visitor. Over."

"She's awake. Coherent. Name's Brynn Fletcher. Heading to family in Whitethorn. Over."

A pause, then: "Sheriff says her grandmother called it in last night. She's been worried sick. Landlines still down in town, but Sheriff's sending someone to let her know the girl's safe. Over."

Gran. Relief floods me, followed quickly by guilt for making her worry. Of course she called the sheriff when I didn't show up.

"Copy that. I'll bring her in when the roads clear. Over and out." Knox sets the radio down, turning to me. "Sounds like your grandmother's been looking for you."

"She must be frantic," I say, fighting a wave of emotion. "I should have stayed with the car. Should have been more careful. Should have—"

"Shoulda, woulda, coulda," Knox interrupts, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Doesn't change what happened. You're alive. That's what matters."

His pragmatism is oddly comforting. No judgment, no lecture about my recklessness. Just the simple acknowledgment that I survived, and that's enough.

"Thank you," I say again, knowing the words are inadequate but unsure what else to offer. "For everything."

He nods once, acceptance and dismissal in the same gesture. "You should rest. Head injuries need time to heal."

"I've been unconscious for fourteen hours," I point out. "I think I've rested enough."

"Stubborn," he notes, like he's cataloging the trait for future reference.

"You have no idea," I mutter.

This time, I'm almost certain the quirk of his lips is the beginning of a smile, though it disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.

"At least go lie down," he says, nodding toward the couch. "Before you fall down. You're swaying."

I am, I realize. The room has begun to tilt again, the concussion reminding me it's still very much present.

I make my way back to the couch, sinking into its cushions. Ranger follows, settling on the floor beside me once more.

Knox disappears down the hallway, returning with a book that he offers without comment. It's a well-worn paperback. Jack London's "Call of the Wild."

"Thanks," I say, surprised by the gesture.

He shrugs. "Got to be boring, stuck here with no phone, no TV. It's a good story."

I turn the book over in my hands, running a finger along its cracked spine. "One of my favorites, actually."

Something shifts in his expression, a subtle softening I almost miss. "Mine too."

For a moment, we simply look at each other. Something electric passes between us, a current of recognition or understanding that makes no sense given how little we know about each other.

Then he turns away, moving toward the door again. "I need to check the property, make sure the storm hasn't taken down any trees. Ranger, stay."

The dog whines but remains at my side.

"I won't be far," he says, hand on the doorknob. "Radio's there if you need anything. Just press the button and call."

Then he's gone again, leaving me alone with his dog and the strange tension that seems to fill the cabin in his absence.

I open the book, trying to lose myself in a story I've read a dozen times before. But my mind keeps drifting to gray eyes and strong hands and the inexplicable way my heart rate increases when he looks at me.

It's just gratitude, I tell myself. Just the natural response to being rescued. Nothing more.

But as I sit in a stranger's cabin, reading a stranger's favorite book, I know I'm lying to myself.

And I've never been good at believing my own lies.