8. Wade

Chapter eight

Wade

I 'd spread the storm shelter documentation across my desk at dawn, telling myself I needed to be thorough and professional. Unfortunately, my hands kept finding other things hidden between maintenance reports and restoration guidelines—sketches from therapy sessions I thought I'd filed away for good.

The early October air had a chilly bite to it, but I'd opened my office window anyway. Sometimes, I needed that promise of escape, a clear connection to the outside. Maya and Tom were already checking trails, leaving the station quiet except for the soft scratch of pine branches against the glass.

A pencil sketch of flames curling through warehouse beams slipped free from a folder. My throat tightened. After three years of therapy, I still couldn't look at it without feeling the heat.

I shoved the drawing back between paper-clipped stacks. My coffee had gone cold, bitter dregs matching my mood. I couldn't stop thinking about the night before at the Little Blue Bean. I remembered how Holden's voice had cracked when he talked about his grandfather and how something in me had wanted to reach across the table and…

The front door's hinges creaked. It was that specific pitch I'd been listening for all morning while pretending I wasn't waiting. My hands weren't quite steady as I gathered the scattered papers. The last two mornings, I'd caught myself tracking time until nine o'clock, like some lovesick teenager instead of a forty-three-year-old ranger who knew better.

"Hello?" Holden's voice drifted in from the public area. "Wade?"

Just hearing him say my name made my heart skip a beat. I pictured him standing out there in the morning light that always seemed to find him, probably wearing one of those soft flannel shirts. I was sure he had a camera slung around his neck.

"Back here." The words came out rougher than intended. I knew I should retreat and slam the professional walls back into place. It would be smarter, safer. Instead, I heard myself say, "Come on through."

He appeared in my doorway exactly as I'd imagined, in blue flannel this time. Something in my stomach dropped, the way it did on hiking trails when a step wasn't quite solid. His smile started bright but faltered when he saw my face. Of course, it did. He noticed everything, this kid with his artist's eye and endless optimism.

"Are you—"

"Research materials." I gestured at the mess on my desk, trying to hide how my hands shook. I tried not to think about how he smelled like coffee and woodsmoke—everything warm and good. His gaze fell on a sketch peeking from beneath a topographical map. I hadn't been quick enough to hide it.

"Did you draw this?" He moved closer, radiating warmth in my too-cold office.

I should have said no. I should have buried the sketch along with the others. Instead, I observed myself saying, "After Chicago. When words wouldn't come."

His hand hovered over the page, not quite touching. "It's... intense."

The care in his voice unwound something in my chest. I pushed back from my desk, needing space but engaging anyway. "There are others."

"Show me?" It was a voice of genuine interest, and that made him dangerous to my defenses.

I pulled out the folder I'd been avoiding all morning. "The department therapist suggested art therapy. She said sometimes trauma needs a different language."

His eyes fixed on another sketch sticking partway out of the folder. "Is that... a squirrel?"

I sighed. "Part of the therapy. I had to draw something that wasn't fire-related. That particular squirrel spent a month terrorizing hikers at the visitor center."

"Terrorizing?" His lips twitched.

"It developed a taste for expensive trail mix. It started organizing raids with its gang. The sketch was supposed to be calming, but..." I gestured at the slightly demonic glint I'd accidentally captured in its eye.

Holden bit his lip, clearly fighting a smile. "So you're telling me your therapy included documenting squirrel crime sprees?"

"They're menaces. You laugh, but one stole Maya's entire sandwich last week when she wasn't looking. Then it sat in a tree eating it while staring her down."

Holden settled into the chair across from me, and I spread out the rest of the sketches—flames and fear captured in graphite and charcoal. My hands remembered every line.

"This one..." He pointed to a drawing of hands reaching through smoke. "The movement here, it's like you can feel..."

I rubbed my wrist. "The helplessness." The word escaped before I could catch it. "Sometimes you can't reach far enough."

Holden looked up. "Is that why you switched to ranger work? To be able to reach people before they need saving?"

The question hit like an uppercut to the solar plexus. I stood abruptly, desperately needing to breathe air that wasn't full of his presence. At the window, I stared at the pine branches while I worked to steady my breathing. Even with my back turned, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"Maybe," I finally managed. "I don't usually..."

"Share?" His voice was closer. I hadn't heard him move. He'd closed the gap between us silently.

I corrected his assumption. "Talk about it at all." I turned, and I quickly understood that was a mistake. Holden stood barely an arm's length away, close enough that I saw the different shades of brown in his eyelashes. A loose thread on his collar drew my attention—something small and imperfect that only made him more real.

"Thank you." His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. One hand rested on my desk, fingers splayed near my sketches like he was anchoring himself. "For showing me."

"I don't know why I..." The truth was I did know. The coffee shop conversation had cracked something open, letting light into places I'd kept dark for years. He'd looked at me across that table like I was someone worth seeing.

He reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement like I was some wild thing that might startle. His fingers brushed my arm just above the wrist, warm through my uniform sleeve. The touch sent electricity dancing across my skin.

"Wade..." The soft, almost reverent way he said my name made my carefully constructed walls feel paper-thin.

I could blame what happened next on temporary insanity. On lack of sleep or too much coffee or the way morning light sparkled off his hair. But the truth was more straightforward and terrifying: I'd been falling since that first morning on the beach, watching him through my own lens of possibility.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up. The slight movement shattered my last defenses. I swayed forward, allowing him to step back and remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea.

Instead, he leaned in, and the space between us became nothing at all.

I kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed me.

Maybe we met in the middle like waves reaching the shore—inevitable, necessary, and frightening in intensity. His lips were soft, tasting of vanilla and coffee, and something inside me shattered and reformed in the space of a heartbeat.

My hands found his waist as his slid up to my shoulders. The kiss deepened, and I remembered how to breathe, feel, and want things I'd convinced myself I couldn't have.

When we broke apart, his eyes were wide, pupils wide and dark. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I found my hands had settled at his waist, gripping lean muscle through soft flannel.

He was all warmth, youth, and possibility pressed against me, and, God help me, I wanted to explore every inch. I wanted to find out whether that golden skin disappearing beneath his collar was as soft as it looked and to trace the lines of what felt like a swimmer's build under those carefully chosen clothes.

"I..." Words failed. They always did when it mattered most. My thumbs had started moving in small circles at his hips without my permission, and the soft catch in his breath made me want things I had no business wanting.

"Wade..." The way he said my name—still slightly breathless—made my hands tighten at his waist.

The sound of a throat clearing came from the doorway. "Um, excuse me?"

We jumped apart like startled deer. A woman in expensive hiking gear clutched a trail map, her eyes darting between us. "The sign said to check in with the ranger about trail conditions."

Years of training kicked in. I shifted automatically into what Tom called my "ranger voice," even as Holden struggled not to laugh behind me.

"Yes, ma'am. Which trails were you considering?" My hand smoothed my uniform shirt—or tried to. Judging by her widening eyes, I probably made it worse.

"The, um, the one to Eagle Point?" She kept glancing at Holden, who I could see in my peripheral vision attempting to fix his hair using my window as a mirror. He wasn't having much success.

"Eagle Point." I grabbed a fresh map, desperately grateful for the familiar routine. "You'll want to stay on the marked trail. Recent storms have made the limestone unstable near the—" I stopped. The map was upside down.

Holden made a sound suspiciously like a smothered laugh.

The tourist's lips twitched. "Should I come back later? When you're less... busy with park documentation?"

"No, no." I flipped the map right-side up, hoping my face wasn't as red as I sensed. "The trail follows the ridge line here." My finger traced the route, steady despite everything. "Watch for yellow blazes. If you see orange markers, you've gone too far."

"Yellow blazes. Right." She accepted the map, amusement evident in her voice. "And how will I recognize Eagle Point?"

"Trust me," Holden spoke up, his voice only slightly shaky. "You can't miss it. It's the one with the angry squirrel gang."

I shot him a look that only made his eyes dance more.

"The... angry squirrel gang," she repeated slowly.

"Standard wildlife. Nothing to worry about." I tried for professional authority. "Unless you're carrying expensive trail mix."

She looked between us again, smiled, and backed toward the door. "Right. Well. Thank you for the... thorough trail information."

After she left, Holden collapsed against my desk, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Your face when you realized the map was upside down..."

"Glad I could provide entertainment." But I was fighting my own smile, the absurdity of the moment cutting through some of the tension.

"Hey." He straightened, reaching out to fix my collar with careful fingers. "At least she didn't notice your badge was crooked too."

The touch of his hands brought everything rushing back. He was so young, and yet I still wanted him. There were so many reasons it was an awful idea.

"I, uh..." He touched his collar, which had somehow gotten twisted. "Your uniform is a little..."

I looked down to find my ranger shirt completely askew, one side untucked. Perfect. Real professional image there. "Now you know why I never made sergeant. Couldn't keep the uniform straight even before..."

His laugh was soft but real. "If it helps, I think the disheveled ranger look works for you."

Reality crashed in like an icy wave. Christ, he was twenty-five. Twenty-five. When I was his age, he'd been in middle school. I stepped back, needing distance but aching to move closer.

"This is..." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how his lips were slightly swollen from our kiss and how his chest rose and fell with quick breaths. "I'm not good at..."

"Hey." His hand found mine, warm and steady. The gesture was so natural, so unguarded. It was precisely how someone his age should be with someone his own age. "Neither am I. But maybe that's okay."

The morning sun painted his hair with amber highlights, and all I could think was how beautiful he'd look spread across my sheets and how his optimism might taste in the early dawn. Dangerous thoughts. Impossible thoughts.

My mind kept throwing up numbers like warning signs. Eighteen years between us. I wasn't someone who should be noticing how his jeans hugged his thighs or imagining the sounds he might make if I...

"I should..." He gestured vaguely at the scattered papers, our excuse for being here shattered by whatever had just happened between us. A faint blush colored his cheeks, and my hands itched to cup his face, to feel that warmth against my palms.

"Yeah." I managed to find my ranger voice, professional and distant, but my fingers still tingled where they'd touched his skin and wanted to touch again.

He gathered his notebook, his movements slow like those of an underwater diver. Even that was graceful. Everything about Holden was fluid and perfect. At the door, he paused. "Tomorrow? For the shelter assessment?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Wanting too much to say "stay."

After he left, I touched my lips where his had been. Three years of therapy had never reached the places that kiss had found. The thought terrified me almost as much as the way my heart lifted when I heard his footsteps fade down the hall.

I dropped into my chair, trying to focus on anything except the lingering scent of Holden in my office. It was impossible. Every sketch on my desk reminded me of how he'd looked at them—at me.

The pine branches kept scratching at my window, and somewhere in the park, Maya and Tom were probably wondering why I hadn't checked in yet. All I could think about was the taste of vanilla on my tongue and the way his body had fit against mine, like some cruel cosmic joke about everything I couldn't have.

I reached for my radio and then let my hand fall. What would I even say? "Delayed by inappropriate fraternization with a photographer half my age?" Besides, my voice would give me away. Tom would hear it in a heartbeat. He noticed everything, especially things I tried to hide.

A group of tourists passed beneath my window, their chatter floating up. Young voices, probably college students, reminded me exactly how far I was from Holden's world. He should be with them, not in the office with a scarred ranger.

But God, the way he'd responded to that kiss... The small sound he'd made in the back of his throat and how his fingers had tightened on my shoulders. I'd felt young again for a moment, alive in ways I'd forgotten were possible.

I forced myself to look at the storm shelter documentation, but the words blurred. All I could see was how understanding had dawned in Holden's eyes when he looked at my therapy sketches. No one had ever looked at those drawings and seen past the darkness to their deeper meaning.

I was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble that no ranger training had prepared me for. This wasn't just attraction—though my body's reaction to him was impossible to ignore. This was something worse. Something that could crack open all the places I'd carefully sealed off.

And the scariest part? For the first time in three years, I didn't want to run. I wanted to chase that light he carried, even knowing it would probably burn me in the end.

The radio crackled. Maya's voice cut through my thoughts: "Wade? You there? Got some downed branches on the north trail that need clearing."

Work. Yes. Simple problems with clear solutions. I grabbed my jacket, desperate for physical labor to quiet my mind.

As I headed out, I caught my reflection in the window. It was a man's face with lips still slightly swollen and his uniform rumpled where Holden's hands had gripped. Even my eyes looked different, alive with a glow I hadn't seen there in years.