The woods smelled like something coming back from the dead—sharp pine, damp earth, all of it breathing. Late-May sun cut through the leaves in thick gold slabs, splashing the trail with moving coins of light. Somewhere a woodpecker hammered out a secret code. Down the slope a creek kept fussing at the rocks.
Anna Harrington had never heard a creek fuss before.
She had on sneakers two sizes too big—faded gray, squeaking like they were complaining. No phone, no wallet, no security tail. Just a crumpled trail map and the wild idea that if she followed the red dotted line long enough, the city would forget who she was.
The red line quit at a moss-chewed sign: PINE RIDGE LOOP – 4.2 MI. Fresh initials oozed sap: A + A.She dragged a chewed fingernail across them.
"Poetic or just marking territory?"
"Both," a voice said behind her.
She whipped around. A guy leaned against the post, one boot hooked over the other, arms folded easy. Dust on his shoulders caught the sun like bronze powder. Gray T-shirt gone soft from too many washes, cargo pants the color of creek mud, canvas pack spilling rolled maps and a brass compass that looked older than both of them. Hair the brown of wet bark, curling at the collar. Hazel eyes—mostly green—watched her with the calm of an old tree.
Her pulse skipped. Not scared. Just… caught.
He pushed off the post. "You're standing on my survey line." "Your line?" She flapped the map. "Says public trail."
"It is. I'm just fixing the switchback the rain ate last month." He tipped his chin at the initials. "Kids. Or hopeless romantics."
"Romantics carve their own names?"
"Only if they think the tree's keeping score."
A small crooked grin. "Andrew. Drew, if you're not paying me."
"Anna," she said, swallowing the rest. "Just Anna."
His gaze slid over the oversized sneakers, the slipping denim jacket, the total lack of anything that cost more than twenty bucks. Something loosened in his face. "Just Anna.
That's a long walk from the lot."
"I walked."
"Four miles in those? Either brave or lost."
"Both."
He laughed—quiet, like he hadn't meant to. The sound landed warm in her ribs. "Loop's shut past the creek. Mudslide took the bridge. I've got a detour. Safer. Better view. You in?"
She glanced back. The city was only a smudge past the ridge. Ahead: miles she didn't know and a guy who didn't know her last name. The choice felt huge.
"Lead on, cartographer."
Drew unhooked a rolled sheet, flattened it against the post. Hand-drawn ridges, tiny elevation ticks, a little fox wearing hiking boots. "GPS lies. Paper doesn't."
She leaned in. Their shoulders touched. He smelled like sun-baked cotton and pencil lead. "You drew the fox?"
"Spirit guide. Keeps my ego in check." He tapped a dashed line. "Ridge, dry creek bed, old fire road. Two hours if the creek behaves."
"I thought creeks only argued with rocks."
"Give it five minutes."
He rolled the map, started walking. Anna fell in behind. The trail pinched narrow; ferns slapped her shins. Every step loosened something knotted between her shoulders.
Ten minutes later he spoke without turning. "So what are you running from?"
The question floated easy. She opened her mouth for the usual lie—traffic, deadlines—but it tasted like old gum. "A dinner. Seven courses. My mother's hosting. Investors. Somebody's dragging along a son."
"Sounds brutal."
"Like swallowing glass."
He snorted. "I've swallowed worse. Trail mix with a mouse in it. Didn't notice till the tail."
Anna laughed—real, loud, startled a jay into the sky. The sound felt urgent.
They kept moving. Drew named things like they were pals: nurse log cradling baby hemlocks, bear-condo stump, trillium scattered like dropped stars. He talked measurements but carried wonder. Anna stored details: spiderwebs glittering, moss the exact green of his eyes.
At the ridge crest the trees stepped back. The valley rolled out in green waves, creek a silver string. The city bruised the horizon, tiny from here.
Drew dropped his pack, sat on a fallen log. "Hydrate or dehydrate."
She took the canteen. Cold, tinny—freedom. Their fingers brushed. Spark.
He didn't flinch. "You're not a hiker."
"That obvious?"
"Calves are screaming. Sneakers still got store creases."
"Guilty." She sat close; heat leaked through his sleeve. "I don't get out much."
"Define much."
"Never."
"Never's a big word."
"So is Harrington," she said before her brain caught up.
Something flickered across his face, then polite blank. He didn't dig. Pulled out two squashed granola bars instead. "Oatmeal raisin. Aunt Clara's recipe. Raisins are nature's candy."
Anna peeled the wrapper. Still warm from his back. "You live with your aunt?"
"Above her garage. Cheap rent, killer coffee, Post-it notes that guilt-trip me." He chewed, thoughtful. "Your turn. What's a Harrington doing in borrowed kicks?"
Anna stared at the valley. Down there her mother was rearranging place cards. Her father was signing eight-figure deals without blinking. Up here she was splitting contraband granola with a stranger who drew foxes.
"I needed to remember I still have legs," she said.
Drew nodded. "Legs are underrated."
Silence settled, soft as flannel. A breeze lifted her hair; he tucked a strand behind her ear without thinking. The touch felt private. Her breath snagged.
"Sorry—"
"Don't." She turned. Their knees bumped. "I'm off sorry today."
Curiosity warmed into something else. "There's a waterfall downstream. Not on any brochure. Need to scout it. Got another hour?"
"I've got the whole afternoon." The truth hit her like cold water. Her calendar was blank.
Drew stood, offered his hand. Calloused, sure. She took it.
The path down was steep, carved by deer. He tested roots, warned about loose gravel. She slipped once; his hand caught her waist. Her heart smacked his ribs. Neither moved.
"You okay?"
"Define okay."
He laughed low, let go too soon.
They hit the creek bed as the sun slid west. The waterfall poured silver over moss into a pool clear as glass. Ferns whispered. Dragonflies stitched green loops.
Drew knelt, spread fresh paper on a rock. "Hold this corner?"
Anna knelt across from him. He sketched fast: contours, depths, a fallen log bridge. Pencil scratched. She watched his hands—ink under the nails, scar on one knuckle.
"What happened?"
"Compass rose. Age twelve. Thought I could carve my name into the planet. Planet carved back."
Anna pushed up her sleeve, showed a pale crescent. "Appendix. Age ten. Mom turned it into a press release."
"Gosh."
"Yeah. Everything's a headline."
He capped the pencil. "Not here."
Simple. Huge. Anna stood, walked to the pool. Kicked off the sneakers, peeled socks, stepped in. Cold shot up her legs like champagne bubbles.
Drew watched, half-smile. "Careful. Deeper than it looks."
"Everything worth finding is." She waded to her knees, dress hem drinking water. "Coming?"
He hesitated a heartbeat, then toed off boots, rolled pants. Calves strong, sun-browned. He stepped in. Water climbed shins, knees. Sunlight strobed through leaves.
Anna closed her eyes. Listened to water, breath, zero expectations. Opened them; he was closer. Water beaded his lashes.
"Tell me something true."
"I don't want to go back."
"Truer."
"I'm scared I'll turn into my mother."
He nodded. "I'm scared I'll stay the guy who only draws lines from A to B."
The words hung, fragile. Anna felt the moment stretch. Drew reached slow; she didn't dodge. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, smearing dirt.
"Got a little trail on you."
"Leave it. Let me be dirty."
Something fierce and soft flashed in his eyes. He laced their fingers underwater. Creek rushed around them.
Above, the waterfall spilled secrets. Below, reflections blurred where water met skin. The world shrank: his palm, leaf-hush, sunlight dare.
She leaned in. He met her. First kiss clumsy—noses bumped, laugh swallowed. Then sure. Warm, oatmeal-pine. Her hand found his nape; his curled her waist. Creek sang approval. Time lost edges.
They pulled apart, foreheads touching. "I don't usually kiss strangers in waterfalls."
"I don't usually let them."
"Technically not strangers. Shared granola."
"Life-changing."
He kissed her again—slower, mapping her smile, her sigh. Rules melted.
A branch cracked. Drew angled in front of her. "Deer." But shadows thickened; reality waited.
"I should—"
"I know." He didn't let go. "Detour back is dicey in the dark. Ranger cabin half-mile up. Empty. I've got a key."
Sanctuary, not seduction. She searched his face, found hope.
"I can't stay all night."
"Dawn at the trailhead. Flashlight, no agenda."
She believed him. Dizzying.
They waded out. He wrung his shirt; she slipped into his flannel—soft, smelling of him. Hem hit mid-thigh.
"Better?"
"Perfect."
They grabbed map, canteen, moment. Climbing the bank, Drew paused.
"Anna?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever's waiting down there—it doesn't get the whole story."
She looked at him against the dying light, felt the first crack in the wall of her future.
"Not if I rewrite it first."
He smiled, fierce, and led her upstream into dusk.