Chapter 5 – Jade
The last stretch of ladder leading up to the fire tower platform makes my thighs burn.
Or maybe that's just the awareness of Victor climbing behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, hear each measured breath.
I focus on the rungs—weathered wood, worn smooth by years of hands just like mine—because focusing on anything else feels dangerous right now.
"Almost there," he calls from below, his voice vibrating through the metal frame.
I don't trust myself to answer. Instead, I push upward those final few feet, emerging onto the observation deck like a swimmer breaking the surface. The sudden expanse of sky and space makes me dizzy—or maybe that's just the altitude. Or maybe it's him.
When my breathing steadies, I turn in a slow circle, and the world opens up around me.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Mountains stretch to the horizon in every direction, undulating waves of deep green fading to misty blue in the distance.
Directly below, the forest canopy spreads like a rumpled emerald blanket.
A river cuts through the valley, catching sunlight in flashes of silver.
To the west, storm clouds gather over a distant ridge, dark and dramatic against the otherwise clear sky.
Victor steps onto the platform behind me, his presence solid and warm at my back.
"Worth the climb?" he asks quietly.
"Worth everything." The words come out more sincere than I intended, but I don't take them back.
The Fox Ridge Lookout Tower rises from the highest point for miles, a sentinel in faded gray wood bleached silver in places by decades of mountain weather.
The wraparound deck gives a perfect 360-degree view, and above us, the actual lookout cabin perches like a glass jewel box, windows on all sides to catch every possible angle of sky and forest.
I raise my camera instinctively, trying to capture the immensity of the landscape, but it feels like trying to bottle the ocean. I adjust settings, try different lenses, but something is missing.
Then I turn, and there's Victor, leaning against the railing at the edge of the deck. The wind teases strands of his hair, and his profile is etched against the vast backdrop of mountains. His eyes are distant, looking at something beyond the visible.
I snap the photo before I can think better of it. The shutter clicks, loud in the quiet.
He turns, and I brace for the scowl, the reminder not to photograph him. But it doesn't come. Instead, he just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Sorry," I say, not meaning it at all. "Couldn't resist the composition."
"It's fine." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in a while.
"Really? No lecture about consent and journalistic ethics?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Maybe I'm getting used to you."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the admission. "Careful. That almost sounded like you like having me around."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I grin, gesturing to the tower. "You brought me to your secret hideout. That's practically a declaration of friendship."
He snorts, but doesn't deny it. "Come on. I'll show you the inside."
The lookout cabin is a single room, maybe fifteen feet square, with windows on all four sides.
One wall is covered in maps—topographical charts of the surrounding wilderness, marked with notations I can't decipher.
Another wall holds a simple kitchenette: a two-burner propane stove, a tiny sink, a few cupboards.
A narrow cot sits in one corner, neatly made with a wool blanket.
A desk faces the eastern window, topped with logbooks and a pair of high-powered binoculars.
The space is spare but not stark—there are touches of humanity in the worn spines of books stacked on a shelf, a mug left on the desk, a jacket hanging from a hook. It feels lived-in, cared for.
"George still comes up sometimes when there's high fire danger," Victor explains, moving to open a window. "And sometimes I stay overnight when I need..." He trails off.
"Space?" I offer.
He nods, something guarded in his expression.
I set my camera down on the desk and sink onto a wooden chair, suddenly aware of how tired my legs are after the long climb. Victor passes me a water bottle from his pack, and I drink gratefully.
The quiet settles around us—not awkward, but weighted, like the air before a thunderstorm. Through the open window, I can hear the wind in the trees far below, the occasional call of a bird. Nothing else. No traffic, no voices, no hum of electronics. Just silence, thick and almost sacred.
"I was nervous about this assignment," I admit, surprising myself. "Not the photography part. The stillness part."
Victor sits on the edge of the desk, watching me with those steel-gray eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not good at..." I gesture vaguely at the expanse of wilderness beyond the windows. "This. Silence. Stillness. Being alone with my thoughts." I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears. "I talk too much because I hate the quiet. It makes me feel too much."
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The quiet can be loud."
"Exactly." I look at him, struck by how perfectly he's articulated it. "Most people don't get that."
"Before I came here," he says slowly, as if testing each word before releasing it, "my life was constant noise.
The TV show, the producers, the expectations.
People always wanting something." He rubs a hand across his beard.
"When it all fell apart, the silence was.
.. deafening. My thoughts were too loud. "
I hold my breath, afraid to break the moment. This is the most he's voluntarily shared with me about his past.
"Is that why you came here? To escape the noise?"
"Partly." He looks out the window. "But also to find a different kind of quiet. One that didn't feel like drowning."
Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on his chest, over his heart. It's a spontaneous gesture, meant to ground, to connect. I feel his sharp intake of breath, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my palm.
"But it's quiet now," I say softly.
He looks down at my hand, then up at my face. The moment stretches, elastic and charged. I should pull away. I don't.
"Sometimes," he murmurs.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe we both do. One glance held too long. A breath suspended. A subtle shift of weight. And then his lips are on mine, tentative at first, like we're testing a theory neither of us is sure about. But the theory proves itself immediately, gloriously right.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly there's nothing tentative about it.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head.
Mine finds his jaw, fingers scratching lightly through his beard.
He tastes like mountain air and coffee, and he kisses like a man who's been starving—controlled but desperate, restrained but hungry.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are dilated, turning his eyes nearly black. I feel flushed, light-headed in a way that has nothing to do with altitude.
A small laugh escapes me, because I can't not react to the absurdity and perfection of kissing Victor Myers in a fire lookout tower in the middle of nowhere.
"What?" he asks, voice deliciously rough.
"Your beard," I say, rubbing my slightly raw chin. "Rougher than I expected." I meet his eyes, my own smile turning wicked. "Better."
His hands tighten on my waist, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me again—deeper, harder. But instead, he takes a steadying breath and steps back.
"We should head back," he says, though his eyes say something entirely different. "Storm's coming."
I glance out the window. The dark clouds I spotted earlier have crept closer, and the light has shifted, taking on that peculiar golden quality that precedes rain.
"Okay," I agree, though leaving this tower—this moment—is the last thing I want to do.
The climb down the tower is quieter than the ascent. Not awkward, exactly, but charged with something new and fragile. Every time our eyes meet, I feel that kiss again, like an echo vibrating through my body.
At the base of the tower, with solid ground beneath our feet once more, I finally find the courage to ask what I've been wondering.
"Do you regret it?" My voice is deliberately casual, though my heart pounds hard enough to bruise my ribs.
Victor doesn't look at me as he secures the tower door, checking the lock twice. When he finally turns, his expression is unreadable.
"Only that it wasn't sooner."
The simple admission steals my breath. I can't quite form words after that, so I just nod, a ridiculous smile threatening to overtake my face.
The hike back is quicker than the journey up, gravity doing most of the work. Thunder rumbles in the distance as we descend, the air growing heavy with impending rain.
By the time we reach the cabin, the first fat raindrops are falling. We make it inside just as the sky opens, rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward the guest cabin.
"Yeah." Victor nods, though he doesn't move away. "You should get some rest. We can review your shots later, decide where to go tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Our last day together. The thought sits heavy in my stomach.
"Okay." I step toward the door, then pause. "Victor?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For the tower. For sharing it with me."
His expression softens. "You're welcome."
I slip out into the rain, dashing the short distance to the guest cabin. Once inside, I lean against the door, heart racing like I've run miles instead of yards.
What am I doing? This wasn't supposed to happen. Victor Myers was supposed to be my guide, nothing more. Maybe a connection to my father's past. Not... this. Not the man whose kiss I can still feel on my lips, whose hands I can still feel in my hair.
I change out of my damp clothes and lie on the bed, listening to the rain.