The radio had been dead static for twenty minutes, and Tiernan Morrison had stopped pretending that was fine.

He set it down on the counter harder than necessary, ran a hand through his hair—damp from melted snow, longer than regulation preferred—and looked out the single north-facing window. White. Just white, driven sideways by a wind that made the whole cabin groan. Rocky Mountain National Park in early October. One of those storms that came in mean and fast, the kind that erased the Continental Divide like it had never been there. He’d seen weather roll in quick before. He’d never watched an entire ridge disappear in under an hour.

“So,” he said, turning around. “Good news is the cabin’s stocked. Bad news is we’re not going anywhere tonight.”

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the old couch by the woodstove, still wearing her jacket like she hadn’t fully accepted the situation. Hair a mess from the wind, cheeks pink from cold, brand-new boots already scuffed and wet. Expensive ones. The kind people bought for a weekend of carefully planned birdwatching that did not include getting lost half a mile off the marked trail in a whiteout.

He’d found her two hours ago. Phone dead, map upside down, cursing at a compass she clearly didn’t know how to read. Should’ve been annoyed. Tourists wandering off trail were basically his least favorite part of the job. But the second she’d looked up at him—startled, then relieved, then something else entirely—his evening had rearranged itself without permission. She hadn’t immediately apologized either. Just stared at him like he was both salvation and an inconvenience. That stuck.

“Define tonight,” she said.

Tiernan crouched by the stove, feeding it another log. Easy motion. He’d built a thousand of these fires. Would build a thousand more. Firelight caught the side of his face, the quick shadow of the beard that grew in whether he asked it to or not. Six-four, dark blond hair, green eyes, the kind of build that came from hauling gear up switchbacks instead of living in a gym. He made the little ranger cabin feel smaller than it already was.

“Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow morning. Storm’s got its own agenda.”

“You’re not even worried.”

He glanced back at her, mouth pulling into that half-grin that usually got him out of trouble or deeper into it. “I’m a little worried. About whether we’ve got enough coffee.”

She laughed. Couldn’t help it. The sound hit him square in the chest and something loosened that he really didn’t want to look at. He wasn’t supposed to notice shit like that. Not with a tourist. Not when he was the one responsible for getting her out of this in one piece.

Christ, she looked good like that—wind-tossed, flushed, still a little pissed at the weather and maybe at him for existing so calmly through it. The blanket had slipped off one shoulder. He could see the line of her throat. The way her pulse moved there if he looked long enough.

He grabbed the wool blanket off the back of the chair, crossed the room in three steps (cabin wasn’t built for a guy his size), and draped it over her shoulders. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo under the cold and the snow. His hand lingered at her collarbone longer than it needed to. Thumb brushed once through the fabric before he caught himself and pulled back.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter now.

“Least I can do. You did hike into a blizzard for some birds.”

“They were very good birds.”

“They’re always very good birds.” He dropped down onto the floor near the stove, back against the couch. Close enough that the heat of him mixed with the fire. He ran warmer than most people. Always had. Right now it felt like a liability. He could feel the exact distance between her knee and his shoulder. Could feel it shrinking every time either of them shifted.