Her lips tremble open. "I thought I was going to crash."
"You didn't." My grip tightens just enough to remind her I'm here. "You flew that plane. You landed it. You saved him."
Her gaze flicks toward the ambulance for half a heartbeat—then snaps right back to me. "Is he…?"
"Alive," I tell her. "They've got him."
Another violent shiver racks her frame. She's hanging on by threads.
I catch the lead medic's eye, give a sharp jerk of my chin—get him out of here. Then my focus narrows back to the woman in my arms. I steer her away from the flashing lights, away from the frantic voices and the smell of burning brakes. She follows because her legs don't know where else to go. We reach the squat airport building—peeling paint, flickering fluorescent bulb over the door—and the second we're inside, the roar of the world dulls enough for her to hear her own ragged breathing.
That's when the crash really hits.
Her hands shake harder. Her teeth chatter. Color drains from her face so fast I can almost watch the adrenaline gutter out.
I catch her elbow before she folds. "Sit."
She collapses into the nearest plastic chair like someone cut her strings.
I yank open the mini fridge behind the counter, grab a water, twist the cap off with a sharp crack. I press the bottle into her shaking fingers. "Drink."
She stares at it blankly for a second—like the concept is foreign—then brings it to her lips. One sip. Another. The simple act gives her trembling hands something to focus on besides shattering.
Good girl.
I drop to a crouch in front of her, putting my eyes level with hers. "Look at me."
Her lashes lift slowly.
Christ.
Those eyes—huge, haunted, rimmed with smudged mascara, lashes clumped with tears—are going to ruin me. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and fear, a loose strand of dark hair plastered to her skin, lips parted and trembling like she's still trying to remember how lungs are supposed to work. She's wrecked. Raw. Beautiful in a way that punches me square in the chest.
My body reacts before my brain can veto it—heart slamming, blood heating, every muscle coiling like I'm about to fight or claim or both. Instalove is bullshit. This isn't bullshit. This is bone-deep, primal,now.
"What's your full name?" I ask.
"Hannah Monroe," she whispers.
"Hannah Monroe." I taste the words, and lock them down deep. "I'm Sheriff Silas James."
Right now she needs safety with a badge on it. But I'm not just the badge. I'm the man whose hands are itching to shield her from whatever put that older fear in her eyes.
"You hurt?" My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
Quick head shake. "No. Just… shaky."
"Normal." I study her closer, cataloging every tremor. "Anyone I should call?"
Her gaze drops to her lap—too fast, too guarded.
My instincts snarl. "Hannah." Gentle, but steel underneath. "You got someone?"
Long pause. Then another small shake. "No." Her answer tells me all I need to know. She’s a woman who's learned what happens when she admits weakness.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel the muscle jump. "Where you staying tonight?"
Her breath hitches. She looks up and there it is—the deeper fear, the one that didn't start in that cockpit. The one with history. Names. Scars. "I'm… not," she says so quietly I almost miss it.