Chapter 4 – Victor
She's bathed in morning light. Golden hour, photographers call it, but they're wrong.
Gold is too simple for what happens when this particular sunlight catches in Jade's dark curls, turning them almost burgundy at the edges.
When it traces the curve of her cheek as she kneels to pack her camera gear, careful hands moving with practiced precision.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring. I can't seem to stop.
Something changed in that glade. When she cried about her father—not dramatic sobs, just quiet tears she tried to hide—I felt a wall inside me crack. And when she took my picture, those sharp eyes seeing right through me, the crack widened.
I don't like it.
"Ready to head back?" Jade calls, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. "I'm starving."
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak normally. This feeling, this awareness, is dangerous. She's half my age. Mark's daughter. A temporary visitor to a life I've carefully constructed to keep people exactly like her—bright, curious, persistent—at bay.
We start down the trail, me leading the way. The path is steeper going down, loose gravel and exposed roots creating natural hazards. I slow my pace, hyperaware of her steps behind me.
"That was incredible," she says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. "The light, the flowers... thank you for showing me."
"You're welcome."
"He speaks!" She laughs. "I was worried the morning magic had worn off and we were back to Grumpy Victor."
"I'm not grumpy," I mutter. "I'm reserved."
"And I'm the Queen of England."
I glance back in time to see her grinning, eyes bright with amusement. The morning sun dapples through the pine canopy, creating a shifting pattern of light and shadow across her face. Something tugs in my chest.
"So, what's next on the—whoa!"
Her foot catches on an exposed root, and she pitches forward.
I react without thinking, spinning and catching her before she falls.
My hands grip her upper arms, steadying her.
For a moment, we freeze like that—her body half-fallen into mine, my hands the only thing keeping her upright.
I feel the warmth of her skin through her thin jacket, smell the clean scent of her shampoo.
Her breath catches. Mine stops entirely.
"Nice reflexes," she murmurs, looking up at me. Our faces are too close. I can see flecks of amber in her brown eyes, count individual lashes.
"Watch your step," I manage, voice rougher than I intend.
"Why, when you'll catch me?" She smiles, something knowing in her expression. "My hero."
I release her and step back, suddenly desperate for space. "We should keep moving."
"Sure thing, Sasquatch." She straightens her jacket, still smiling. "Lead on."
We continue down the trail, but something has changed again. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. I'm too aware of her presence behind me—every breath, every footfall, every soft hum as she processes the morning's images in her mind.
By the time we reach the cabin clearing, the sun is fully up, warming the crisp mountain air. Jade heads straight for the main cabin door without hesitation, as if she belongs there.
"Make yourself at home," I say dryly as she steps inside.
"Plan to." She shrugs off her jacket, revealing a fitted thermal that clings to curves I'm trying very hard not to notice. "Coffee?"
"There's instant in the cupboard above the sink."
She makes a face. "Instant? What kind of wilderness hell is this? Don't you have a French press or something?"
"Do I look like I run a coffee shop?"
"You look like someone who appreciates quality," she counters, already opening cupboards. "Aha! Knew it."
She pulls out my rarely-used French press with a triumphant smile and sets about making coffee like she's done it here a hundred times. I stand in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching her move through my space with easy confidence.
She hums while she works, fingers tapping against the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. Her tongue peeks out in concentration as she measures grounds. Every small motion feels oddly intimate in my kitchen—this space that's been mine alone for so long.
"So," she says, glancing up and catching me watching her. "What's on the agenda for today's shoot?"
I clear my throat. "There's a ridge to the east. Good view of the valley."
"We just came from the east."
"Different ridge. Higher up."
She raises an eyebrow. "Details, Victor. I need more than 'it's a ridge.' What makes it special? What's the story?"
I shift my weight, uncomfortable with her pushing. But her eyes are bright with genuine interest, not just professional curiosity.
"There's an old fire watchtower," I say finally. "Only occasionally used. Good vantage point. You can see three mountain ranges from up there."
"A fire tower?" Her face lights up. "That's perfect! Exactly the kind of hidden sanctuary the magazine wants. Can we get inside?"
"Yes." I hesitate. "An old friend has the keys. He worked there for years, still keeps an eye on it."
She grins, pouring the now-ready coffee into two mugs. "Look at you, with connections and everything. And here I thought you were just a hermit who scared away the local wildlife."
"The tower's been decommissioned for almost a year now," I explain, surprised at my own willingness to share details. "Park Service replaced it with satellite monitoring and drones. But they kept the structure as a historical site."
"Really? That's unusual for them. Budget cuts usually mean demolition."
I shrug. "George Humphrey—the friend I mentioned—he fought for it. Has a soft spot for the place after working there so many years. We maintain it occasionally, keep it from falling apart."
"So it's still accessible? Not all boarded up?"
"It's intact. He’s talked about turning it into some kind of educational center eventually, but for now it's just... waiting."
Her eyes light up. "That's perfect for the story. A preserved piece of history, hidden in plain sight." She studies me over her mug.
The sunlight catches in her hair again, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like between my fingers. The thought ambushes me, unwelcome and impossible to dismiss.
"We should eat before we head out," I say abruptly, needing something to do with my hands that isn't touching her. "It's a long hike."
"I'll help." She sets down her mug. "What are we making?"
"Just sandwiches. Nothing fancy."
Side by side at the counter, we assemble a simple lunch. Ham, cheese, the last tomato from my greenhouse. Her shoulder occasionally brushes mine as she reaches for ingredients, and each contact sends a jolt through me that I refuse to acknowledge.
"So," she says casually, spreading mustard on bread, "what happened after the TV show? Why disappear completely?"
I tense. "It's not important."
"It is to me." Her voice is soft, not pushing, just there.
I focus on slicing cheese with unnecessary precision. "The network wanted more drama. More danger. I wasn't interested in faking survival scenarios for ratings."
"That must have been frustrating."
"It was dishonest," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "People would watch and think they knew how to survive real situations. Could get someone killed."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "So you walked away from it all."
"They ran a story. Said I had a breakdown. That I was unstable." The old anger flickers. "Made me into some cautionary tale about fame and pressure."
"And you came here to get away from all that."
"I came here because it's the only place that's ever made sense." I wrap the sandwiches in wax paper, avoiding her gaze. "People are exhausting. They want pieces of you until there's nothing left."
She's quiet for a moment, just standing there, close enough that I can feel her warmth. Then, softly: "You deserve more than being everyone's cautionary tale."
The words hit somewhere tender, unexpectedly precise. I don't know how to respond, so I don't. But when she reaches past me for a water bottle, I don't step back like I normally would.
Her arm brushes my chest, and I let it happen.
An hour later, we're halfway up the trail to the fire tower. It's steeper than the morning hike, rockier, with sections where the path narrows to barely a foot wide along a sheer drop. Jade insists on carrying her own gear despite my offer to take the heavy camera bag.
"I've got it," she says for the third time, slightly breathless but determined. "Been hauling this equipment up mountains for years."
I walk behind her, partly to catch her if she slips, partly because I don't trust myself not to stare if she's behind me.
She moves with surprising strength for someone so small, tackling the incline with stubborn persistence.
Every now and then she lets out a little grunt of effort or mutters a curse under her breath, but she keeps going.
"You can take a break," I offer when we reach a particularly steep section.
"I'm fine," she grits out, wiping sweat from her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, curls plastered to her temples. She looks alive in a way that makes my chest ache.
"We're not in a race."
"Says the man who walks like he's being chased by bears." She adjusts her pack and continues upward. "I can keep up."
I bite back a smile at her determination. She reminds me of someone—myself, maybe, before life wore down my edges. Before I learned that some mountains aren't worth climbing.
The trail curves around a massive boulder, and suddenly the view opens up, a panoramic vista of the valley below, mountains rising in the distance, the ribbon of river catching sunlight like polished silver. Jade stops so abruptly I nearly collide with her.
"Oh my God," she breathes, already reaching for her camera.
But I'm not looking at the view. I'm watching her—the way she tilts her head slightly as she frames a shot, the curve of her lips as she focuses, the complete absorption in her expression. She's fully present in this moment, open to beauty in a way I haven't been for years.
She turns, catching me watching her. Instead of looking away, I hold her gaze.
"What?" she asks, lowering her camera.
"Just..." I hesitate, "You look like you belong here."
A slow smile spreads across her face—not teasing this time, but something softer, more genuine. "That might be the nicest thing you've said to me."
"Don't get used to it."
She laughs, but her eyes stay on mine, searching for something. I'm not sure what she finds, but whatever it is makes her smile deepen.
"Too late," she says quietly. "I'm already getting used to you, Victor Myers."
The words settle between us, weighted with possibility. I should step back. I should remind her—remind myself—that this is temporary. In less than two days, she'll be gone, back to her life in the city, and I'll be alone again.
But standing here, with sunlight painting her face and mountains spread at our feet, I'm no longer sure that's what I want.
She turns back to the view, camera raised again, and I let myself watch her work. Let myself acknowledge what I've been fighting since she stepped in my cabin: I don't want her to leave.