2. Hunter
Chapter two
Hunter
Idon't bother knocking when I come back.
The door's unlocked. I made sure of it when I left, and my hands are full with a folding worktable under one arm and a box of equipment under the other.
The rain's picked up in the twenty minutes I've been gone, hammering the cabin roof hard enough that I can barely hear my own boots on the porch.
Cold air follows me inside, carrying the smell of wet forest and ozone.
Skye's still surrounded by chaos, kneeling in the middle of the floor with planner materials scattered around her like shrapnel.
She's got her hair twisted up now, held in place with what looks like a pen, and there's a streak of ink on her jaw.
She doesn't look up when I enter, too focused on sorting through a pile of what I'm pretty sure are the same materials she was sorting when I left. No progress. Just motion.
On the fireline, this pattern has one ending: Someone gets hurt. I'm not letting that happen here.
The first thing I do is start a fire in the woodstove. Then, I move through the cabin like I'm setting up a fire camp with quick, efficient movements, building the system she needs before she realizes what's missing.
"You didn't set anything up." It's not a question.
She looks up, and relief flickers across her face for a moment before she turns wary. "You told me not to."
"Good." I unfold the worktable and position it near the window where the light's best, angling it so she'll have room to move around all sides. The legs lock into place with solid clicks, and I test the stability with both hands before moving to the next task.
"What are you doing?"
"Setting up your workflow." I'm already sorting through her materials, grouping like items together with quick, decisive movements. I dated someone who lived by her planner, so this isn’t my first time seeing them.
I put custom covers in one pile. Insert pages in another. Tools and equipment in a third.
"I can do that myself."
"You could. But let me get things laid out first." I move a box of materials closer to the table, already calculating the sequence.
"You'll set up based on what feels urgent instead of what's efficient.
You'll waste half your time looking for things and the other half redoing work because your process is scattered. "
Silence stretches between us. When I glance over, she's staring at me with her mouth slightly open.
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what everyone does when they're under pressure. It’s not specific to this.” I wave my hand over the materials.
“They react instead of planning. Push through instead of pausing.
" I position a plastic bin near the edge of the table, testing the reach.
"And then they wonder why everything takes twice as long as it should. "
She's quiet for a moment, her gaze tracking my movements. "You do this a lot? Boss people around in their own workspaces?"
"I manage systems. On the fireline, in construction, search and rescue, here. Doesn't matter what the work is." I turn to face her fully now, and her breath catches. "If the system's broken, people get hurt."
"I'm making planners, not fighting wildfires."
"You're behind on orders with a tight deadline. Your business is on the line. You haven't slept properly in days." Our eyes lock, and the weight settles. "How is that different from a fireline?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks away.
Less than thirty minutes later, the chaos is gone. Main table for assembly. Materials staged left. Tools right. The cabin warms as I work, woodstove pushing back the damp chill.
She stands slowly, turning in a circle to take it all in. Her hand comes up to touch the table edge, fingers trailing along the smooth surface like she's testing to make sure it's real. She picks up a stack of inserts, swaps their places with plastic sleeves, and steps back.
"This is… perfect." She trails off, shaking her head. "How did you do this so fast?"
"Practice." I move to a cluster of reusable grocery bags on the floor, checking to see what she's got for food. Not much: protein bars, instant coffee, some cans, a couple of apples that've seen better days. Tomorrow I'm bringing real supplies. "You need to eat before you start working."
"I'm fine."
"You're running on fumes. How long has it been since you ate something that wasn't caffeine and sugar?"
She frowns. Can't remember.
I pull out one of the apples, rinse it in the sink, and hold it out to her. "Eat this. Then we'll do a test run of your workflow to make sure the setup works."
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
Our fingers brush when she takes the apple, and the brief contact sends heat up my arm.
She goes still, her eyes widening before she steps back and takes a bite with more force than necessary.
I turn away before things happen too fast, giving her space to eat without me staring at her like some kind of predator.
I want to keep her. Build walls around her so nothing else can get in. The intensity should worry me. I've known her for two hours, but it feels like certainty.
"Show me your process," I say when she's finished.
"My process?"
"Walk me through how you make one of these. Start to finish."
She hesitates, wrestling with pride or the deep-seated belief that she has to do everything alone. Then her shoulders drop half an inch, and she moves to the table, her hands already reaching for materials.
She walks me through it, discussing the covers, inserts, and accessories. Her fingers work quickly, and she smells like rain and something floral. I move behind her shoulder, close enough that my hands flex with the urge to touch her, to smooth the tension from her shoulders.
"How long does one take?" My voice is rough.
"Eight to ten minutes for standard orders. Fifteen to twenty for custom."
Three hundred and seventeen orders. Even at eight minutes each, that's over forty hours of assembly time, and that's assuming nothing goes wrong, assuming she doesn't need breaks, assuming every single order is standard. Which they won't be.
"You can't do this alone."
The planner is motionless in her hands. "I don't have a choice."
"You do now." I keep my tone level, matter-of-fact, even though there's nothing simple about what I'm offering.
She turns to face me. We're too close in the small space between the table and the wall, but near enough that I can see the freckles along her cheekbones, the dilation of her pupils when she meets my gaze.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'm helping. You tell me what needs to be done.
I'll do it. We'll work in shifts so you're not burning out.
" I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brush a strand of hair that's escaped her makeshift bun off her forehead.
Her breath hitches, and warmth spreads low in my spine. "And we'll hit that deadline."
"Hunter, you don't—I can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm telling you how this is going to work."
The air between us thickens. Her pulse hammers at the base of her throat, and her lips part slightly.
"Why? Why would you do this?"
Because I can't watch you drown.
"Because you need help," I say instead. "And I'm here."
She searches my face like she's looking for the catch, the angle, the moment where this turns into debt. I let her look. Keep my expression steady and open, even though the wanting is getting harder to control with every second that passes.
Finally, she nods. Just once. Barely perceptible.
"Okay."
The word settles between us.
I step back, buying myself some time. "Good. Now show me how to do the basic assembly. I'll take the standard orders. You handle the custom ones. We'll work for two hours, then break. No arguments."
She almost smiles. "You're very bossy."
"You noticed."
This time she does smile, and it transforms her face, softening the exhaustion, lighting her up from the inside. I want to see that expression again. I want to be the reason for it.
"All right, mountain man. Let me teach you how to build the perfect planner."
Within fifteen minutes, I've got the rhythm down with covers, inserts, accessories, checking, sealing, and labeling.
My hands are bigger than hers, less practiced at the delicate work, but I'm careful.
Methodical. The materials are smooth under my callused fingers, and there's a satisfaction in the repetitive motion.
We work in companionable silence, broken only by the rain against the windows and the occasional instruction when I have a question.
The stack of completed planners grows steadily, and I track her in my peripheral vision, watching the way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating, the small furrow that appears between her brows.
Then the gradual loosening of her shoulders.
An hour passes, then ninety minutes. Her movements slow, hands hovering uncertainly over materials.
"Break time." I set down my materials and come around the table.
"I'm fine. Just a few more—"
"Now, Skye."
She looks up at me, and resistance flickers in her eyes before something else surfaces underneath.
Relief. Like she's been waiting for someone to make her stop.
I hold out my hand, and after a moment's hesitation, she takes it.
Her palm is warm against mine, smaller than I expected, and I can feel the slight tremor of exhaustion running through her.
I pull her gently to her feet and guide her to the couch.
"Sit."
She sits without protest, which tells me exactly how close to the edge she is.
I head to the grocery bags and rummage through her supplies until I find the protein bars. When I turn back with food and water, she's watching me with an unreadable expression, soft and wondering and a little bit wary.
"I can take care of myself. You don't have to do this."
"Yeah. I do."
"I'm not used to it." She unwraps the protein bar without looking at me.
"To what?"
"Someone seeing when I'm drowning and actually doing something about it."
The admission is a weight she’s been carrying. "I'm not most people."
"I'm starting to notice that."
The silence that follows is charged, full of things neither of us is saying.
She takes a bite of the protein bar, and I track the movement of her throat as she swallows, the way her tongue darts out to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth.
My cock stirs, sharp enough to make my hands tighten on my knees.
"Hunter?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She finishes eating, and I stand, offering my hand again. "One more hour. Then you sleep. I'll keep working."
"You need sleep too."
"This isn’t up for debate."
She lets me pull her up, and this time she doesn't let go right away. Her fingers tighten around mine, and she looks up at me with raw vulnerability in her expression.
"I don't know why you're doing this. But I'm really glad you are."
My free hand comes up before I can stop it, cupping her jaw. My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed. The trust in that simple gesture nearly undoes me.
"Come on. Back to work."
The next hour passes in a blur of assembly work and growing awareness that the space between us is shrinking with every minute. She asks me to hand her materials, and our fingers linger. I reach past her for a tool, and my arm brushes her shoulder. Small touches that feel anything but incidental.
By the time I decide it’s quitting time, we've made solid progress, with forty-three orders completed and stacked. But she's swaying on her feet.
"Bed." There's no room for argument in my tone.
"What about you?"
"I'll clean up here. Then I'll crash on the couch." I turn her toward the small bedroom at the back of the cabin, my hand on her lower back. The heat of her skin bleeds through her shirt. "Get some sleep. We'll start again in eight hours."
She hesitates at the bedroom door, looking back at me. "I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't need to."
"I do, though. This is..." She gestures helplessly at the organized workspace, at the stack of completed orders. "You're saving me."
I cross the distance between us and frame her face with both hands. She gasps softly, her hands coming up to grip my wrists like she needs the anchor.
"Listen to me. You don't owe me anything. Not thanks. Not payment. Nothing. Understand?"
She nods, but the question is still there in her eyes.
I press my lips to her forehead, and her hands tighten on my wrists. The pulse beneath my thumbs kicks faster, and when I pull back, the disappointment in her eyes tells me she knows what I'm holding back.
"Tell me to stop," I say.
"What if I don't want you to?"
I lower my mouth to hers. She rises to meet me, and when our lips touch, it's like striking a match.
Heat flares, immediate and consuming. The kiss is slow despite the intensity.
I'm careful with her, conscious of how fragile she is.
But she opens for me with a soft sigh that makes hunger claw up my spine, and I deepen the kiss, tasting her.
She tastes faintly like the protein bar and something uniquely her that I want more of.
Her hands slide from my wrists up my forearms, gripping tightly. I pull her closer, one hand in her hair while the other presses across her back, and she melts into me with a surrender that feels like trust.
When I finally pull away, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and dazed.
"Sleep," I murmur against her mouth. "I've got everything else."
She nods, eyes heavy, and slips into the bedroom. The door closes softly behind her, and I stand there for a moment, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
Then I turn back to the table and get to work.
The cabin's quiet except for the storm and the soft sounds of my hands moving through familiar motions, now muscle memory. I work for another two hours, setting up the next batch of orders, double-checking the workflow, making a list of supplies we’ll need.
When I lie on the couch, rain hammering the roof, one thought circles through my mind: Seventy-two hours isn't going to be enough.
It might be enough to finish the work, but it’s not enough to figure out what I'm doing with this woman. And definitely not enough to walk away when it's over.
But I've got three days to prove she doesn't have to do everything alone.
After that? I'll figure it out.
My shoulders ache from hours bent over the worktable, but the weight pressing on my chest for I don’t know how long is finally gone.