Chapter 8 #2
"We need to go. Now." He takes my arm gently but firmly. "Different route back—there's a shelter cabin about half a mile from here. We won't make it to the car before this hits."
The first fat raindrops begin to fall as we hurry along a narrow trail I wouldn't have noticed without Noah's guidance. The path descends slightly before cutting across the face of the ridge, offering less protection from the elements.
Within minutes, the rain becomes a deluge. Wind-driven sheets of water reduce visibility to mere feet. My light hiking jacket provides minimal protection, and soon I'm soaked through, cold water running down my neck and back.
A sharp crack of thunder directly overhead makes me flinch. Lightning illuminates the mountainside in stark relief, too close for comfort.
"Almost there," Noah shouts over the storm's roar, his hand finding mine to guide me along an increasingly slippery section of trail.
The shelter cabin appears so suddenly that it seems like a mirage—a small, sturdy structure nestled against the mountainside, nearly invisible against the granite backdrop. Noah fumbles with the simple lock mechanism, then pulls the door open, ushering me inside just as hail begins to pelt down.
The interior is dark until Noah locates and lights a lantern hanging near the door. The small flame illuminates a space that can generously be called rustic—perhaps ten feet square, with a narrow cot against one wall, a tiny woodstove, and shelves holding basic emergency supplies.
“One of Jackson Hart's shelter cabins,” Noah explains, water streaming from his hair and clothing onto the rough plank floor. "He maintains several of these along the more remote trails. Basic survival setup."
"Thank God for Jackson Hart," I say through chattering teeth, my body registering the cold now that we've stopped moving.
Noah moves efficiently, checking the woodstove and finding it stocked with dry kindling and split logs. "First priority is getting warm and dry. That rain's near freezing."
Within minutes, he has a small fire crackling in the stove. Its heat feels miraculous against my chilled skin, but my soaked clothing negates much of the benefit.
"You need to get out of those wet clothes." Noah rummages through a storage trunk, pulling out what appears to be emergency supplies. "Hypothermia's no joke at this elevation."
He produces two foil emergency blankets, a few thin towels, and what appear to be hospital scrubs. "Hart keeps the basics in all the shelters. Not exactly fashion-forward, but dry."
The practicality of the situation doesn't diminish its awkwardness. The cabin is tiny, with no separate space for privacy. Noah seems to realize this at the same moment I do. Without a word, he turns his back to me, giving me the privacy I need to change.
As I watch him, I can't help but feel a sense of irony. It's almost comical that he's being such a gentleman now, turning his back to give me privacy. After all, this is the man who has seen every inch of me, who has kissed, licked, tortured, and fucked every part of me.
But that was ten years ago, and if anything's true, it's that things have changed.
I peel off my sodden jacket, fleece, and top, using one of the towels to dry off as quickly as possible before pulling on the scrub top. It's thin but blessedly dry. The hiking pants are more problematic—completely soaked and clinging to my legs like a second skin.
I struggle out of the wet fabric. Despite the tension between us, there's a certain comfort in this moment, a sense of shared history that makes the awkwardness bearable. I can't help but appreciate Noah’s gesture of respect, a small act of kindness that speaks volumes about the man he's become.
I towel off my legs and pull on the scrub pants, which hang loose but at least provide coverage. "Okay, decent. Your turn."
We execute an awkward dance of position switching, me facing the rough-hewn wall while Noah changes behind me.
I'm acutely aware of every rustle of fabric, every soft curse as he navigates out of his wet clothing in the confined space.
My imagination provides unwelcome but vivid images of what's happening just a few feet away.
"All clear," he says finally.
I turn to find him in similar scrubs, his hair damp and tousled, feet bare like mine. The sight of Noah Morgan—professional, authoritative Fire Chief Noah Morgan—in baggy blue hospital scrubs shouldn't be attractive, but somehow it is.
Disarmingly so.
He hangs our wet clothes on a rope line strung near the stove, arranging them for maximum drying effect. I wrap one of the foil blankets around my shoulders, trying to stop the occasional shivers running through me.
"Storms like this usually pass quickly," Noah says, checking his radio. "But the trail will be dangerous for a few hours after. We're probably here until morning."
The reality of our situation settles over me—a full night alone in this tiny cabin with the man I've been trying not to fall for again. One small cot, minimal supplies, and nowhere to escape the growing tension between us.
"I should let someone know.” I reach for my phone. "Mabel will worry."
"No service up here." Noah holds up his own phone, showing the no-signal indicator. "But don't worry—this is standard procedure in mountain rescue. They'll check the shelters when we don't report back by the scheduled time. They know where we are."
"You told someone we were coming here?" I wrap the blanket tighter.
"Always file a route plan before heading into the backcountry. Basic safety." He opens a cabinet, examining the contents. "Looks like we've got some emergency rations. Protein bars, dried fruit, water purification tablets."
"Gourmet dining at its finest," I joke, trying to lighten the atmosphere that grows more charged by the minute.
Noah smiles, the firelight casting intriguing shadows across his features. "Not exactly what I planned for our peace offering hike."
"I don't know," I find myself saying. "There's something to be said for adventure."
His eyes meet mine, holding for a beat too long to be casual. "Always did like that about you, Riley. Up for anything."
His words send a shiver down my spine, and it's not from the cold.
Memories flood my mind, unbidden and intense.
Noah showing me what it felt like to be completely, terrifyingly seen by another person.
A world where nothing was off-limits—not the wanting, not the asking, not the raw, unfiltered truth of what we craved from each other.
I remember the thrill of discovering new parts of ourselves together, the exhilaration and vulnerability of trusting someone that completely. The way he'd look at me afterward—not like he'd conquered something, but like I'd handed him something sacred.
I was up for it all, eager to match his intensity, eager to meet him wherever he wanted to go.
Every touch left an imprint. Not on my skin—deeper. On some hidden architecture inside me that no one else has ever reached. He mapped me so thoroughly that a decade later, I still feel the echo of his hands like a phantom limb.
The air between us thickens with unspoken possibilities, the weight of our shared history pressing down on us. I break the gaze first, focusing on the task at hand, but my mind is elsewhere, lost in a storm of memories and longing, the past and the present colliding.
I can't help but wonder what he's thinking, if he's remembering the same things I am.
The cabin might be tiny, but it feels like it's filled with the ghosts of our past, echoes of the people we were and the love we shared.
"It's beautiful here, in a terrifying way," I say.
Noah stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body but not quite touching. "That's the mountains for you. Gorgeous one minute, trying to kill you the next."
"Sounds like certain relationships I've had," I quip before thinking.
His soft laugh warms me more than the fire. "Present company excluded, I hope."
"Jury's still out." I glance at him, unable to resist a small smile. "You did lure me into a rainstorm to trap me in a cabin with one bed overnight.”
"All part of my diabolical plan." There's a lightness to our banter that feels like rediscovering a favorite song. "I've always found life-threatening weather events excellent for clearing the air."
We share a genuine laugh, the tension between us transforming into something more comfortable, if no less charged.
"Speaking of clearing the air," Noah says, more serious now. "I really am sorry about yesterday. The things I said at The PickAxe—they weren't fair."
"We both said things." I turn to face him fully. "Ten years of unfinished business tends to come out messy."
"Still." He leans against the window frame. "I shouldn't have ambushed you like that. Or made assumptions about your career choices."
The sincerity in his eyes makes my chest tight. "I appreciate that."
"I've followed your work, you know." The casual admission surprises me. "Subscription to Horizon Magazine and everything. That series you did on small communities responding to climate disasters was brilliant."
Warmth that has nothing to do with the fire floods through me. "You read my work?"
"All of it." He shrugs, an endearingly self-conscious gesture. "Figured it was one way to still have you in my life, even if you didn't know it."
The revelation leaves me momentarily speechless. While I'd deliberately avoided seeking information about Noah, he'd been keeping tabs on my career all along.
"I know about the promotion, too," he adds quietly. "Senior Features Editor. It's what you've been working toward, right?"
"How could you possibly know about that? The position hasn't even been officially announced.”
"Gram subscribes to three journalism industry newsletters. She's very invested in media career trajectories." His smile is wry. "Particularly yours."
The absurdity of Eleanor Morgan tracking my career from afar makes me laugh despite myself. "Why am I not surprised?"
"That's Gram for you. Once you're on her radar, there's no escaping."
Outside, the storm continues its assault, rain lashing against the small window. Inside, the woodstove crackles, casting the cabin in a warm glow that feels increasingly intimate as daylight fades.
Noah checks our clothes, rearranging them for better drying. "Still pretty soaked. We'll be stuck in fashion-forward scrubs for the night."
He opens a storage bin below the cot, pulling out a thin mattress pad and a couple of worn but clean-looking blankets. "Good news is Hart keeps basic bedding supplies. Bad news is there's only one cot."
The bed in question is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two adults. We both stare at it, the implication hanging in the air between us.
"I can take the floor," Noah offers, though the cabin's rough planks look painfully uncomfortable.
"Don't be ridiculous." I force practicality into my voice. "We're both adults. We can share the cot for one night. For warmth if nothing else."
"For warmth," he repeats, something flickering in his eyes that makes my pulse skip. "Practical."
"Exactly." I busy myself arranging the blankets, hyper-aware of Noah's proximity in the small space. "Just sleeping."
"Just sleeping," he agrees, though the slight roughness in his voice suggests he's thinking about our kiss at Lookout Point just as much as I am.
We work together to make the cot as comfortable as possible, neither of us addressing the obvious fact that we'll be pressed together all night, with nothing but thin scrubs between us.
The same thought must be running through both our minds, though we're careful to maintain the pretense that this is merely a practical arrangement.
As Noah adjusts the lantern to a lower setting, casting the cabin in soft amber light, I can't help but wonder if this is the universe's idea of a cosmic joke—or perhaps an opportunity disguised as a mishap.
"All set," he says, gesturing to our makeshift bed. "After you."
I slide under the blankets, pressing myself against the wall to make room.
Noah extinguishes the lantern completely, leaving only the glow from the woodstove to illuminate the cabin.
The cot dips as he joins me, his body radiating heat as he settles beside me.
There's no sliver of space between us; our bodies are pressed tightly together, necessity overriding any pretense of distance.
His warmth is immediate and enveloping, a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into my bones. The hard lines of his body press against mine, the firm muscles of his chest and thighs, and it sends a jolt of awareness through me.
Memories of other times we were this close flood my mind, unbidden and intense.
I try to focus on the sound of the storm outside, the wind howling, and the rain pelting against the cabin walls. But all I can feel is Noah's steady breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the beat of his heart echoing through me.
The intimacy of our situation is inescapable, and I find myself torn between the comfort of his familiar presence and the uncertainty of what this proximity means now, after all these years.
As the minutes tick by, the heat from the woodstove and Noah's body begins to thaw the chill from my limbs, but it does little to quell the storm of emotions and memories swirling within me.
The universe might have a sense of humor, but at this moment, there's nothing funny about the raw, primal connection between us, a connection that time and distance have done nothing to diminish.
In the semi-darkness, with rain drumming on the roof and wind howling around the cabin's corners, I'm acutely aware of every breath, every slight movement.
We lie side by side, both pretending this isn't exactly what we've been thinking about since our lips met at Lookout Point.
"Riley?" His voice is soft in the darkness.
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth... I'm glad you came back. Even if it's just for your article."
The simple honesty in his words threatens to undo my careful restraint.
"Me too," I whisper, admitting it as much to myself as to him.
The space between us feels charged—a story waiting to be written, if we're brave enough to pick up the pen.