7. Hannah
Hannah
I woke before dawn, disoriented by the unfamiliar warmth at my back and the arm draped over my waist. Caleb’s breath stirred the hair near my neck, slow and steady. His face, unguarded in sleep, looked softer. Younger. The tension he wore like armor had slipped away—at least for now.
Last night shimmered in fragments: firelight, whispered truths, hands that didn’t just touch, but remembered. Caleb had been careful, reverent—like he wasn’t claiming me, just... returning to something he thought he’d lost. For once, I wasn’t arguing or convincing. I just was . And he saw me anyway.
Carefully, I slipped from the bed, my ankle reminding me that passion didn’t erase sprains. I pulled on his flannel—too big, warm from sleep—and limped to the window.
The trees were still. Pale light stretched across the clearing, soft as breath. The world felt suspended, like it hadn’t decided what to be yet.
Today, I was supposed to leave. One day—that was the deal. But everything had changed. Not just the evidence. Something quieter. Something I didn’t have a strategy for.
Us.
Caleb’s journal lay open beside the microscope, a page caught mid-turn like it had been interrupted. It wasn’t hidden. Wasn’t filed away. Still in use.
I limped over. Let my fingers brush the page.
Margins full of sketches. Notes that wandered. Observations that bled into something more personal. A fish with blistered gills. A photo of a river bend, clipped beside a hand-drawn sketch of the same view—now bleached, scarred.
It wasn’t data. It was grief with ink and paper.
"That’s private."
His voice was quiet, roughened by sleep. I turned.
He stood by the bed, jeans unzipped, hair wild from sleep. No mask. No defenses.
"I know," I said, heart thudding. "I wasn’t snooping. I just... it’s not about the case. It’s you. And how much you still care."
He crossed the room slowly. "I didn’t write that for anyone else. Didn’t think I’d keep going. But I couldn’t stop. Not really."
"Because it still matters. Because Mark mattered."
He looked away.
I closed the journal gently. "You’ve been carrying this alone for too long. And I know it’s not court-admissible. But it’s real. And it means something. Even if it’s just to me."
He was silent for a long moment. Then he knelt. Pulled up a floorboard.
A key. A hidden compartment. A waterproof case. A sealed laptop.
"Three years of structured data. Photos. Samples. Mark’s files, too. Inspection records. Notes he didn’t get the chance to send."
My throat tightened. "He kept all of it?"
"He was trying to make it matter. Like I was. Just... quieter."
I swallowed. "That’s why they went after him. He wasn’t just reporting violations. He was proving them."
Caleb nodded. Then opened the laptop.
Files. Labeled. Clean. Meticulous. It was more than evidence—it was a tribute. A eulogy in code and clarity.
And then—
A sound. Low. Mechanical. Deliberate.
Engines. Big ones. Trucks, most likely.
Caleb froze.
"That’s not a ranger."
I moved fast. Clothes. Boots. Caleb was faster—packing the drive, the files, the journals. He grabbed the rifle, slung it over his shoulder.
"For wildlife," he said.
We didn’t believe it.
We slipped out the back. Cold air bit at my skin. Caleb lifted me onto the ATV, secured the case.
Voices rose behind us. Boots. Wood. A door slammed open.
"Gas station guy?"
"Maybe. They’ve got ears everywhere."
We peeled into the trees. I didn’t look back—until I heard the window shatter.
That sound. Like something final.
His cabin. His quiet. His exile. Torn open.
"I’m sorry," I said into his shoulder.
He shook his head. "Don’t be. I was stuck. You got me moving again."
I tightened my arms around him.
Not just to hold on.
To stay.
Whatever came next, he wasn’t facing it alone.