Luke stops at the treeline. Holds up one hand; silent command to wait.
He circles the perimeter while I lean against a pine trunk and try to catch my breath. My body wants to collapse. To curl up right here on the forest floor and sleep for a week.
But I watch Luke instead. The methodical way he checks windows, tests the door, scans for threats I wouldn’t know to look for.
He returns. “Clear. No recent occupation.”
Then he kicks in the door.
The old lock gives easily, wood splintering, metal tearing free. He gestures me inside without ceremony.
The interior is exactly what I expected. Single room dominated by a stone fireplace. Rough-hewn furniture that’s seen better decades. Hunting trophies mounted on walls—deer, elk, something with too many antlers.
Dusty but dry. Better than sleeping in the forest.
Luke drops his pack, immediately moving to bar the door behind us. He checks windows, testing locks, assessing sight lines.
I stand in the middle of the room and try not to shake.
He’s alive.
The thought keeps circling back, refusing to settle into something I can accept. He’s alive and he came for me and we’re here together instead of both dead.
“Small supply cache.” Luke’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s crouched by a cabinet, pulling out canned goods, bottled water, emergency blankets. “Enough for a day, at least.”
“There’s a washroom.” I spot the narrow door in the corner. Move toward it on autopilot.
It’s a tiny space. Just a sink, toilet, and what looks like a shower rigged to a cistern on the roof. But it’s clean. Functional.
I stare at the shower like it’s salvation.
When I emerge, Luke’s building a fire in the hearth, small flames catching on kindling, smoke curling up the chimney.
He glances at me. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch.”
I don’t argue. Can’t form the words to refuse even if I wanted to.
The water runs cold at first. Then lukewarm; barely warm enough to matter, but enough.
I strip off my torn, filthy clothes. The jacket Luke gave me in the cave. The pants shredded at the knees. Everything crusted with dirt and dried blood and three days of fear.
I step under the weak stream.
Watch it all swirl down the drain. Brown water turning clear. Blood and grime washing away.
My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache. Bruises blossoming dark across my ribs where guards grabbed me. Wrists raw and bleeding where the cuffs bit deep. Muscles screaming from days of running and climbing and surviving.
But alive.
I’m alive!
The tears come without warning. Mix with water streaming down my face. I let myself cry for the first time since Mara fell. For the first time since I thought Luke was dead. For everything that’s happened and everything I’ve lost.
The water runs cold before I’m ready to stop.
I wrap myself in a threadbare towel hanging on a hook, then step back into the main room where warmth from the fire hits my skin.
Luke has laid out clothes on the chair. An oversized flannel shirt. Thermal pants that will be too long. He’s standing by the window, back to me.
