Chapter 13 Trigger
Trigger
The generator coughed once.
Just once.
That was all it took.
The low hum outside stuttered, then cut out completely, plunging the cabin into sudden, absolute silence.
The lights blinked—gone.
The fire became the only source of light, casting long shadows across the walls and making the cabin feel older. Smaller. More exposed.
I was on my feet instantly.
Weapon up.
Eyes on the door.
Ears straining.
Nothing.
No movement. No sound except the pop of burning wood and the faint wind slipping through the trees.
Behind me, Rylie stirred.
“Trigger?” Her voice was thick with sleep, threaded with confusion.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “Stay where you are.”
I moved to the back window first, pulling the curtain aside just enough to scan the tree line. The moon was hidden behind clouds, the forest darker than it had been an hour ago.
The generator had stalled.
Not sabotage.
Just cold.
I crossed to the door, cracked it open a few inches, and stepped onto the porch. The night air bit hard, sharp enough to wake me all the way through. I crouched beside the shed, flipped the switch, and listened as the generator struggled, then caught again with a low, steady growl.
Lights flickered back on inside the cabin.
Good.
But the quiet stayed wrong.
I went back in and locked the door behind me.
Rylie was sitting up on the couch now, blanket clutched tight around her shoulders, eyes tracking me like she needed to confirm I was still real.
“The power—” she started.
“Generator hiccup,” I said. “It happens.”
Her gaze dropped to the weapon in my hand. Then back to my face. “You didn’t seem surprised.”
“I wasn’t.”
That didn’t reassure her.
She shifted, pulling her knees up, making herself smaller. The firelight caught the tension in her face—the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw locked like she was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet.
I holstered the weapon slowly and set it on the table within reach. Non-threatening. Intentional.
Then I crouched in front of her.
Not close.
Just… present.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. I just—everything went quiet all at once.”
“I know.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “Does that ever stop bothering you?”
I didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant.
“No,” I said. “You just learn what quiet really sounds like.”
She swallowed. “And what did that quiet mean?”
“That we’re still alone,” I answered. “And still safe.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction, like she’d been holding them up with effort alone.
“Can I—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
I waited.
She sighed. “Can I sit closer to the fire?”
“Of course.”
She stood, the blanket slipping slightly, and moved toward the hearth. The couch was too far now—too exposed. The floor near the fire was warm, the heat soaking into the wood, into bones that had been carrying too much for too long.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, staring into the flames.
I stayed where I was for three seconds.
Then five.
Then I joined her.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I could feel the warmth of her through the space between us.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The fire crackled. The generator hummed steadily again. Outside, the woods remained still—but the good kind of still. The kind that meant no one was moving through it.
Rylie hugged the blanket tighter around herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet before.”
I glanced at her and smiled. “You are pretty quiet. Not at all like the Rylie I know. Besides, it’s always quiet in Eagle River, at least most of the time.”
She nodded. “But there was always something. A radio. My dad moving around. At least a little noise.”
“I didn’t realize how loud my life in Dallas was,” she continued softly. “Until it stopped.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“Loud doesn’t always mean alive,” I said.
She looked at me then. Really looked. The firelight painted shadows across my face, and I didn’t bother hiding them.
“I don’t know how you do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Carry all this.” She gestured vaguely. “The watching. The waiting. The… readiness.”
I considered the truth, then decided she deserved it.
“You don’t carry it,” I said. “You let it become part of you. Like breathing.”
Her brows knit together. “That sounds lonely.”
I didn’t answer.
Because it was.
She shifted closer without realizing she’d done it, her arm brushing mine.
The contact was accidental.
But neither of us moved away.
Her breath caught slightly, just enough that I noticed.
I forced myself to keep my voice steady. “You can lean on me if you want.”
The offer sat between us, fragile.
Rylie hesitated for a long moment.
Then she did it.
Slowly. Carefully.
She leaned sideways until her shoulder rested against my arm.
The weight was light.
But it felt enormous.
Every instinct in my body went on high alert—not for danger, but for restraint. For control. For the knowledge that this wasn’t a moment to take.
It was a moment to hold.
Her head tipped slightly, resting against my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her through my jacket, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“I feel safe,” she whispered.
The words hit me square in the chest.
Good men didn’t chase that feeling.
They protected it.
I shifted just enough to brace my arm behind her back—not pulling her closer, just making sure if she sagged, she wouldn’t fall.
She relaxed further, trusting the support.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before,” she added quietly.
My jaw tightened.
I stared into the fire and spoke carefully. “You deserve to.”
Her fingers tightened in the blanket, then loosened. “What happens when this is over?”
The question was soft.
But it was loaded.
I didn’t look at her. “One step at a time.”
She nodded, accepting that answer even though it wasn’t the one she wanted.
After a while, her breathing deepened again—sleep edging back in, drawn by warmth and exhaustion.
I stayed exactly where I was.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t shift.
Because some kinds of closeness weren’t about desire.
They were about trust.
And once given…
It changed everything.