6. Hunter
Chapter six
Hunter
The deadline counter on Skye's phone reads twenty-three hours when I glance at it during our water break, and the margin for error has evaporated.
One hundred and forty-two orders complete.
One hundred and seventy-five remaining. The math is tight enough that my back teeth grind together, numbers scrolling through my head in calculations I can't stop running.
She's at the worktable now, fingers moving through the assembly sequence, but something's building in the set of her shoulders that wasn't there yesterday.
A batch of custom covers unboxed with the wrong foil color, metallics instead of matte, which means twenty orders need a complete rework.
Twenty orders that were supposed to be in the finished stack are back at square one, and the lost time compounds with every hour that passes.
I should be focused on solutions, on restructuring the workflow to absorb the setback, but my attention keeps snagging on the way her spine curves forward and the small furrow appearing between her brows.
That fragmented energy we'd left behind is creeping back in, and the return of it makes my hands go still on the planner I'm assembling.
We're slipping back into crisis mode, the deadline pushing us toward machine-like efficiency instead of connection.
When the stakes get high enough, people stop being human and go on autopilot. They push until something breaks.
Usually themselves.
"Hunter, can you pass me the rose gold accessories?" Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard since that first day, brittle around the consonants.
I hand her the bin, and our fingers don't linger. She takes it without looking up, already turning back to her work, and the absence of contact tightens something low in my gut.
"You need to eat." Setting down my materials, I move toward the kitchenette and pull out the sandwich fixings I brought this morning.
"I'm not hungry."
"That wasn't a question." The words come out harder than intended, command instead of care, and she looks up with surprise flickering across her face before wariness chases it down.
"I'll eat when this batch is done."
"You'll eat now." I'm already building the sandwich, movements precise even though the back of my neck heats, frustration crawling up my spine. "Five-minute break. Non-negotiable."
She opens her mouth to argue, and I level her with a look that makes the protest die unspoken.
I regret it immediately. Her hands go still on the planner materials, uncertainty crossing her expression, and after a long moment, she sets everything down and comes to the kitchenette.
I forced it instead of her choosing it, and the difference lands heavily.
The sandwich sits between us on the counter while she eats in silence, each bite mechanical. I pour water, and she drinks when I hand her the glass, but there's no warmth in the compliance. Just weariness and the weight of numbers neither of us can ignore.
"We're going to hit the deadline," I say quietly. "The rework is manageable. I've already adjusted the workflow to compensate."
"You can't know that." She sets down the glass with enough force that water sloshes over the rim. "We lost four hours on those covers. Four hours we didn't have to lose. And if something else goes wrong—"
"Then we'll handle it."
"You keep saying that like it's simple." Her voice rises, frustration bleeding through the careful restraint she's been maintaining.
"Like you can just fix everything by reorganizing the space and enforcing breaks.
But you can't—suppliers screw up, materials arrive defective, and no amount of planning changes that. "
The cabin feels smaller suddenly, walls pressing in. Outside, wind rattles the windows hard enough to make the glass rattle.
"I know." The admission stops her mid-breath, and I step close enough to see the weariness bruising the skin beneath her eyes.
"I can't eliminate every variable. I can't guarantee nothing else will go wrong in the next twenty-three hours.
What I can do is make sure you're fed and rested and not burning out before the finish line. "
She looks away, the muscle in her jaw working. "I don't need you to manage me."
The words hit harder than they should, and I take a step back before the urge to crowd her space overrides my better judgment. "That's not what this is."
"Isn't it? Telling me when to eat, when to break, when to work?" She crosses her arms, a defensive posture I haven't seen since that first day. "I appreciate the help, Hunter. I do. But I've been running this business alone for three years. I know how to handle this."
"By running yourself into the ground?"
"By doing whatever it takes." Her eyes flash, and there's the stubborn determination that brought her to the mountains in the first place.
"You don't understand what's at stake here.
This isn't just a deadline. It's my entire livelihood.
If I don't deliver these orders, I lose customers.
I get bad reviews. I lose the reputation I've spent years building.
So yes, I'm going to push myself. Because that's what you do when everything you've worked for is on the line. "
The speech should make me back off, give her the space she's demanding. Instead, it crystallizes exactly what I've been watching happen for the last six hours. She's reverting to old patterns, the ones where she carries everything alone and measures her worth by how much she can endure.
I've seen this before. On the fireline, when someone refuses to rotate out of the hot zone. In SAR, when a crew member keeps working through injury because admitting pain means admitting vulnerability. It always ends the same way.
"You're right," I say quietly and watch relief flicker prematurely across her face. "I don't understand what it's like to build a business from nothing. To have everything riding on one deadline."
She nods, shoulders dropping half an inch.
"What I do understand is what happens when someone pushes past their limits because they think they have to do it alone.
" I hold her gaze, letting the weight of experience settle between us.
"I've carried bodies off mountains, Skye.
People who thought they could handle one more mile, one more hour, one more push. They were wrong."
Color drains from her cheeks, lips parting around a response that won't form.
"So when I tell you to eat, to rest, to let me help carry this, I'm making sure you survive this thing you're trying to accomplish." I take a breath, forcing my voice to stay level. "Because I've already decided I'm keeping you. And that means I'm not watching you break yourself for a deadline."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the wind rattling the cabin windows and the distant sound of rain starting up again. She's staring at me with wide eyes, her breathing gone shallow and quick, and the rapid flutter of her pulse is visible where her throat meets her collarbone.
"You can't just—" She stops, swallows, and tries again. "You can't just decide you're keeping me."
"Too late. Already did."
"Hunter—"
"We can talk about this later. After the deadline.
" Turning toward the worktable before I do something we're not ready for, like pin her against the counter and kiss her until she stops arguing, I force my hands to pick up materials.
"Right now we have a hundred and seventy-five orders to finish.
And we're going to finish them together, which means you're going to let me help.
No more fighting me every step of the way. Understood?"
She doesn't answer immediately, and when I glance back, she's gripping the counter edge hard. After a long moment, she nods and returns to the worktable.
We work in silence for the next three hours, the easy rhythm we'd built over the last two days replaced by something heavier.
The only sounds in the cabin are the planner materials sliding into place and the rain on the roof.
I'm hyperaware of every movement she makes, cataloging signs of fatigue or strain, and the constant monitoring pulls my focus in directions it shouldn't go.
The assembly work suffers. I make mistakes I haven't made since the first day, accessories in the wrong slots and covers misaligned, and each error compounds the heat building at my neck.
My grip on the situation is slipping.
"Hunter." Skye's voice cuts through the spiral, and I look up to find her watching me with concern softening the weariness in her eyes. "Take a break."
"I'm fine."
"You just put pink accessories in an order that's supposed to be navy and gold." She nods at the planner in my hands, and I look down to see she's right. The evidence of my distraction is sitting right there in my palms. "You've been working for too many hours straight. You need to step away."
The role reversal should be satisfying, with her enforcing the boundaries I've been trying to establish. Instead, it lands like proof of failure.
Setting down the planner, I walk to the door and grab my jacket off the hook. "Going to check the perimeter. Make sure the storm didn't damage anything."
"Hunter, wait—"
But I'm already outside, cold rain hitting my face and the wind carrying the scent of wet earth. The cabin disappears behind me as I take the trail that circles the property, boots finding purchase on muddy ground through muscle memory alone.
Rain soaks through my jacket and plasters the flannel to my shoulders, cold water sliding down my spine.
I brace one hand against a tree trunk because standing upright suddenly requires more effort than I have left.
The bark is rough and wet under my palm, solid in a way nothing else has been for the last six hours.
This frustration isn't about her. It's about me. About the fact that I can't eliminate every risk or guarantee the outcome. All I can do is stand beside her and hope it's enough. Hope has never been currency I knew how to spend.
The thought of her leaving opens something raw beneath my ribs. She could finish these orders and go back to her life, back to managing things herself because that's what she's always done. I press my forehead against the tree trunk and breathe hard while the storm builds around me.
The walk back takes longer than it should, my boots heavy with mud and my thoughts heavier with realizations I'm not ready to examine.
When I push through the door, Skye's hunched over the worktable, shoulders curved inward like she's protecting something fragile.
The stack of completed orders has grown; she kept working while I fell apart outside. Of course she did.
She looks up when I enter, and something in her expression makes me stop just inside the threshold. Determination lives there, yes, but underneath it is weariness so profound it makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "For earlier. You were trying to help, and I threw it back in your face because I'm so used to doing everything alone that I don't know how to let someone help without thinking I'm failing."
"Don't." Crossing the cabin to her, I cup her face with hands still cold from the rain, and she shivers at the contact. "You don't apologize for setting boundaries. Ever."
"But I was wrong. You weren't trying to manage me. You were trying to take care of me, and I—"
I feel her admission physically, and I lower my forehead to hers with a breath that shakes on the exhale. "You think letting me help makes you weak. It doesn't. It makes you human. And I'm not here because you're incapable of doing it alone—I'm here because you shouldn't have to."
Her hands come up to grip my wrists, holding on like I'm the anchor keeping her from drifting.
"I don't want to just survive anymore." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"I want what you're offering. The help. The partnership.
Someone who sees when I'm drowning and doesn't wait for permission to throw a lifeline. "
"Then take it." I slide my hands to the back of her neck, thumbs anchoring her jaw as I create an inch of space between us. I track the flicker of her pupils, forcing her to find the lack of hesitation in my stare. The room shrinks to the heat between our skin. I let the silence prove I’m not moving.
"Stop fighting me. Stop apologizing for needing help.
Just let me do what I'm good at, which is keeping the people I care about safe. "
"Okay." The word is little more than a whisper, and her grip tightens on my wrists. "Okay."
I kiss her forehead, then step back before the wanting overrides better judgment. "We have twenty hours left. Show me what still needs to be done."
She walks me through the remaining orders, voice steadier now, and we fall back into the workflow with something that resembles surrender, both of us giving up the need to carry the burdens alone. She lets me help, and I let her lead, and we stop trying to do it all ourselves.
The hours blur together, broken only by enforced breaks and the steady progress of orders moving from incomplete to finished. By the time I call the session at midnight, we're down to ninety-three orders remaining. Manageable, if nothing else goes wrong.
She sways on her feet when she stands, and I catch her elbow to steady her. "Bed. Now."
"What about you?"
"I'll be right behind you." The words come automatically, and I check on her through the cracked bedroom door ten minutes later. She’s curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek, finally still.
The urge to climb in beside her is a physical ache, but the stack of unfinished orders pulls harder.
I'll make up the honesty later. Right now, I'm buying us time.
Turning back to the worktable, I work for another three hours after she falls asleep, pushing through weariness to add another twenty orders to the finished stack.
My hands move through the familiar motions while my mind circles the same thought: She chose to trust me today.
Chose partnership over self-reliance. And that choice matters more than any deadline.
When I finally stretch out on the couch, rain still hammering the roof and dawn creeping gray through the windows, the certainty settles deeper.
Twenty hours to prove this works. That she doesn't have to do it alone. That I'm not just here for the deadline.
After that, we'll see if she chooses to stay.