Not when she whispered “with you” like it was the only place she felt safe.
I tip my head back against the cushion, eyes still on her. The firelight from the living room flickers down the hall, painting shifting shadows across the walls. My body’s wired—heart thudding steady but hard, muscles coiled like I’m waiting for a fight. Sleep won’t come easy, but that’s fine. I’ve pulled worse shifts.
I’ll sit here all night if I have to.
Watching.
Guarding.
Waiting for morning so I can start figuring out how to keep this woman—who crashed into my life like a damn meteor—safe from whatever hell she’s running from.
Because she’s not running alone anymore.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
CHAPTER 5
Hannah
Sunlight filters through the thin curtains, pulling me from a deep, dreamless sleep that feels like it lasted days instead of hours. I blink at the unfamiliar ceiling, wooden beams crossing overhead, and for a moment confusion swamps me. Where am I? The sheets smell like pine and clean laundry, warm against my skin, and the mattress dips comfortably under my weight. Then it rushes back: the plane, the runway, Silas's arms catching me before I collapsed. Haven 7. His cabin.
I sit up slowly, my head throbbing with a dull ache from yesterday's chaos. My muscles protest, stiff from the tension that gripped me during the flight, but the bed is soft, the quilt heavy and comforting. I swing my legs over the side, feet touching cool hardwood floors. The room is simple: a nightstand with a lamp and that thriller book, a dresser against the far wall, clothes folded neatly on top. No clutter, no mess. It suits him, this orderly space.
The scent of coffee drifts in, rich and dark, mixed with something savory, bacon maybe, or eggs frying. My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate last night amid all the introductions and Eli's checkup. I rub my eyes, smearing whatever's left of yesterday's makeup, and glance around for my shoes. They're by the door, placed neatly, like someone thought ahead.
Silas. He must have carried me in here. The thought sends a warm flush through me, chasing away some of the fog. I remember drifting off on the couch, his voice murmuring questions, his hand brushing my hair. And now I'm in his bed. Alone, of course, but the pillow next to mine looks untouched. Where did he sleep? The chair in the corner catches my eye, dragged close to the bed, a blanket draped over the arm like he sat there watching over me.
My heart squeezes at the idea. This man, this sheriff with his growly voice and steady hands, guarding me through the night. I shouldn't let it affect me like this, but it does. He's too kind, too protective, and way too good-looking for my own good. Those dark eyes that pinned me yesterday, seeing right through my "I'm fine." Broad shoulders stretching his shirt, the way his jeans hug his thighs when he moves. Even his hands, calloused and strong, make something stir inside me that I’ve never felt before. But I can't afford distractions. Not now.
I stand, testing my balance. Steady enough. I pad to the window, peering out at the mountain view: pines heavy with snow, a crisp blue sky stretching forever. It's peaceful here, the kind of quiet that could make a person forget their troubles. But my troubles aren't the forgetting kind. They claw at the back of my mind, insistent. I have to get out of here. Back to Timber Creek, back tothe airstrip, back to them. The people who hold my father's life in their hands.
It started six months ago, or maybe longer, depending on how you count it. Dad's diagnosis came like a thunderclap: advanced lung cancer, the kind that spreads fast and doesn't play fair. Treatments were expensive, bills piling up faster than we could pay them. Mom had passed years earlier, and it was just us, scraping by in our little house outside Seattle. I worked two jobs, waitressing and tutoring math online, but it wasn't enough. The hospital offered payment plans, but interest ate us alive. Then the calls started. Anonymous at first, voices muffled through some app or filter. They knew about Dad's condition, knew our debts. "We can help," they said. "Pay the bills, get him the best care. But you do something for us."
I thought it was a scam. I hung up the first few times. But then money appeared in our account, enough for the next round of chemo. And the demands followed. Learn to fly. Small planes, short trips. They arranged lessons with Rick, the instructor who stroked out midair yesterday. He wasn't in on it, I don't think; just a guy teaching novices. But they chose him, chose the remote airstrip in Timber Creek, far from prying eyes. "You'll smuggle goods across the border," they explained in one clipped message. "Canada. Easy runs. No questions."
Goods. That's all they called it. Drugs? Weapons? Stolen tech? I have no idea, and asking felt dangerous. All I know is Dad's treatments continued, paid in full, as long as I showed up for lessons. Miss one, and the payments stop. Or worse. They hinted at that once: "We'd hate for your father to suffer more." Blackmail wrapped in fake concern. I moved to Timber Creek two months ago, renting a cheap motel room under a fake name,telling Dad I got a job opportunity. He thinks I'm thriving. I can't let him know the truth. It would break him.
Yesterday was supposed to be my final solo practice. Rick guiding me through maneuvers, then handing over the controls. But the stroke hit, and everything spiraled. Now Rick's in the hospital, and I'm here, hiding on a mountain with a sheriff who could unravel it all if he digs too deep. I can't stay. If I don't check in soon, they'll assume I bailed. And Dad...
I shake off the thought, and force myself to move. My clothes from yesterday are rumpled but clean enough. I smooth my shirt, running my fingers through my tangled hair, and head toward the kitchen sounds. The hallway is short, walls lined with framed photos: Silas in uniform, shaking hands with locals; a group shot of the Haven 7 crew, all smiles around a campfire. He looks younger in some, but that jawline, those eyes, they've always been striking. I pause at one, him with a dog, a big shepherd mix, both covered in mud. He grins wide, carefree. My chest tightens. What would it be like to see that smile aimed at me? To not have shadows chasing every step?
I can’t afford that.
The kitchen opens up ahead, and there he is. Silas stands at the stove, back to me, flipping eggs in a cast-iron skillet. Coffee brews on the counter, steam rising in lazy curls. He's changed into a fresh flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose those forearms again, muscles flexing as he works. Jeans worn soft from use, boots scuffed but polished. His hair is tousled, like he raked a hand through it while thinking. The whole scene feels domestic, safe, and it hits me how much I crave that. But craving won't save Dad.
He turns, sensing me maybe, and his eyes light up for a split second before worry creases his brow. "Morning. How'd you sleep?"
"Like the dead." I manage a small smile, stepping closer. The table is set: plates, forks, a jar of jam. He's thought of everything.
"Good. You needed it." He pours coffee into a mug, and hands it over. Black, but there's cream and sugar nearby. "Eggs are almost done. Bacon too. Figured you'd be hungry."
I wrap my hands around the mug, warmth seeping into my palms. "You didn't have to do all this."
"Wanted to." His voice is low, that gravel edge making my skin tingle. He plates the food, and sets one in front of me as I sit. "You look better. Color's back. But if you're still shaky, Eli's around."
"I'm okay. Really." A lie, but necessary. I fork into the eggs, fluffy and perfect. He sits across from me, his own plate loaded higher. His worry lingers, in the way he watches me eat, like he's assessing for cracks.
We eat in a comfortable quiet at first, the clink of utensils, birds chirping outside. But his gaze keeps drifting to me, questions unspoken. "About last night," he starts finally. "You mentioned an ex. If he's the reason you're running..."