Chapter 4
KAI
The hike was a practical idea.
That was what I told myself as I stood on Emory’s porch Saturday morning, knocking once and then lowering my hand before the echo fully faded.
She’d been in Iron Peak for over a week now. Long enough that she should know the area. The trails. The way the terrain changed without warning. The places where cell service dropped out completely like the mountains swallowed the signal whole.
Safety reasons.
If something happened—if she slipped, if the weather turned, if she wandered somewhere she shouldn’t—she needed to know where she was and how to get help. That was what I’d rehearsed. The explanation I could justify. The version of this that made sense.
The truth sat heavier in my chest. I wanted to spend the day with her.
The door opened, and the thought evaporated as Emory smiled at me, bright and easy and entirely unguarded. It hit like a blunt-force impact to the ribs.
She was dressed for the outdoors. Hiking boots worn in but sturdy. Leggings that hugged her thighs and calves. A fitted long-sleeve shirt that should have been completely unremarkable but somehow wasn’t, clinging in ways I was deliberately trying not to catalog.
I failed.
“You’re here early,” she said.
“Best time to hike,” I replied. “Before the sun gets high.”
She stepped back inside, grabbed a lightweight jacket and a small backpack from beside the door, then joined me on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “Where are we going?”
“Iron Peak Trailhead. Best views around here.”
She didn’t hesitate. No nerves, as far as I could tell. No second-guessing. Just curiosity.
“Lead the way.”
We walked side by side down the gravel road away from the cabins, the crunch of boots against stone the only sound between us at first. The morning air was cool enough to bite, but not unpleasant.
The sky was a deep, impossible blue you only saw at this altitude, the kind that never lasted past late morning.
Birds moved through the trees overhead, wings rustling. Somewhere farther off, water rushed over rock—steady, persistent.
After a few minutes, Emory broke the silence. “I really needed this. I’ve been staring at textbooks for so long, I forgot the sun existed.”
“How’s the studying going?”
She shrugged. “Good. I think. I’ll know for sure when midterms hit.” She glanced at me. “Thanks for forcing me to take breaks. I probably would’ve studied myself into a hospital stay if you hadn’t kept showing up.”
I grunted. Gratitude always sat wrong with me, like something I didn’t know how to accept properly.
“I mean it,” she continued. “You’ve been really sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
She laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. “Okay. You’ve been really gruff and intimidating in a way that somehow still translates to sweet. Better?”
I didn’t respond, but I felt the pull at the corner of my mouth. She noticed. She always noticed.
The trail narrowed as we left the road behind, winding upward through dense pine and scrub oak. Rocks jutted from the dirt at uneven angles, and the incline grew steeper as we climbed. Emory adjusted easily, breathing steady despite the elevation.
All that yoga, probably.
Don’t think about the yoga.
Too late.
I shoved the thought aside and focused on the trail.
“Tell me about this place,” she said. “You mentioned a logbook when we were at the diner.”
“Hikers sign in before heading into the backcountry,” I said. “Name. Route. Expected return. Helps search and rescue if someone doesn’t come back.”
Her steps slowed slightly. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Often enough.”
The path switchbacked sharply near the top, and when we crested the ridge, Emory stopped short. “Oh, wow.”
The overlook opened up in front of us—a wooden platform fixed into the rock, a railing running along the edge. Beyond it, the valley fell away in layers of green and gold, ridges fading into one another until Iron Peak rose in the distance, its summit still capped with snow.
A small ranger shed stood nearby, weathered but solid. The logbook sat mounted to a post beside it.
“This is incredible,” she murmured, moving toward the railing. “I get why people come here.”
I followed, standing close enough to catch her scent on the breeze—clean, faintly floral, and unmistakably her. “Some of them don’t leave,” I said.
She turned. “What do you mean?”
I nodded toward the logbook. “Check the names.”
She crossed to it and flipped through the pages. I’d watched dozens of people do the same thing over the years. The moment always landed the same way—confusion first, then the slow realization.
Her fingers paused over a page where several names were circled in red. “They… didn’t come back?”
“Not all of them,” I said. “Search and rescue does what they can. But the mountains don’t care how prepared you are. Weather shifts fast. One wrong call, one slip, and that’s it.”
She traced one of the circled names slowly. “That’s awful.”
“It’s reality,” I replied. “You respect this place, or it reminds you why you should’ve.”
She was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. Then she looked at me.
“Is that why you live here?” she asked. “Because it’s dangerous?”
The question caught me off guard. There was no judgment in her tone. No pity. Just curiosity. Genuine interest.
“I live here because it’s quiet,” I said. “And because people leave me alone.”
A small smile touched her mouth. “Except for me.”
“Except for you.”
Something in my chest tightened when she smiled back. Softer this time, thoughtful.
We moved to one of the benches near the edge and sat down, shoulders close but not quite touching.
The sun had climbed higher, warming the air, and she tilted her face into it with a quiet sigh.
I watched the light play over her features—the curve of her cheek, the way her hair caught gold in the brightness.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Depends.”
“Why law school?”
She stared out across the valley. “My dad’s a lawyer. Corporate work. My mom wanted me to be a teacher like her.” She exhaled slowly. “I spent most of my life trying to be what one of them wanted.”
“And now?”
“Law school was my decision. Not corporate law. I want to do public interest work. Help people who don’t have a voice.” She laughed softly. “My parents keep asking when I’ll get a real job.”
“Sounds real to me.”
She blinked and turned toward me. “Yeah?”
“Helping people matters.”
Something shifted in her expression, emotion flickering there before she seemed to decide to hide it. “I’ve never really fit anywhere. It always feels like I missed the instructions everyone else got.”
The words landed hard.
You’d fit with me.
The thought came fast and uninvited, terrifying in its certainty.
“Kai?” She studied my face. “You went somewhere again.”
“I’m here.”
“Where do you go when you do that?”
I should’ve deflected. Changed the subject. Done what I always did.
“Nowhere good,” I said.
She reached for my hand—not demanding, not tentative. Just there. Warm. Present. Despite myself, I felt the walls I’d built around my heart start to crumble.
I turned my hand over and laced our fingers together. She inhaled softly but stayed.
“Emory,” I said. “I should stay away from you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll hurt you.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Shouldn’t I get to decide whether that bothers me enough to stay away?”
“You should run,” I said quietly. “That would be smart.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ve never been very smart.”
And then she kissed me.
Soft. Questioning. Barely there.
When she started to pull back, uncertainty flickering across her face, something inside me snapped. I kissed her fully, weeks of restraint breaking loose in one breathless moment. She melted into me, fingers gripping my shoulders as if anchoring herself.
“Kai,” she whispered. “I need to tell you something.”
“Later.”
She pulled back, breathless. “No. Now.” She swallowed. “I’ve never done this before.”
I froze.
“I’ve never been with anyone,” she said. “I’m a virgin.”
Heat surged—possessive instinct flaring hot and dangerous—but restraint followed just as fast.
“We should stop,” I said, even though every part of me rebelled. “You deserve so much more than—”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me what I deserve.” She cupped my face. “I want you.”
The resolve I’d clung to didn’t stand a chance.
I kissed her again, slower this time. Deliberate. Worshipful.
“Not here,” I murmured. “You definitely deserve something better than this. A bed or a….”
My gaze flicked to the ranger shed.
She followed it. “Is that—”
“It’ll work,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I took her hand and led her toward the shed.