"There's a blanket in the back room," I say, standing. "I'll grab it."
"I'm fine."
"You're cold."
"I've been colder."
"That doesn't mean you have to stay cold now."
I find the blanket—military-issue wool, scratchy but warm—and bring it back. She takes it without argument this time, wraps it around her shoulders. The dried blood on her temple looks even darker against her pale skin.
"You should try to sleep," I tell her. "A few hours, at least. You've been through hell."
"So have you."
"I'm trained for this."
"So am I," she murmurs, the words slipping out soft and frayed at the edges, her voice barely rising above the storm's low growl outside.
But her eyelids droop heavy as she forces the sentence through, lashes fluttering like she can't quite keep them propped open, dark smudges blooming under her eyes like bruises from nights without rest.
Her head tips forward a fraction before she catches it, jaw clenching in a brief, futile fight, while her free hand drifts to her temple, pressing there as if to steady the sudden weight dragging at her after the relentless pull of three sleepless days etched in every tensed line of her body.
"Bed is yours." I gesture to it. "I'll keep watch."
"Where will you sleep?"
"I don't sleep on ops."
"Is that what this is? An op?"
The same question she asked in the warehouse, but it lands differently now. Heavier. Loaded with everything we're not saying.
"It's supposed to be," I admit.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "But it's not. Is it?"
"No. It's not."
"When did it stop?"
I think about that. About the moment in the warehouse when she cracked that joke. About watching her keep pace during the extraction. About the way she's holding herself together even as her entire world shatters.
"Probably the second I heard those men talking about you," I say. "I just didn't know it yet."
She nods like that makes sense. Like it's not the most unprofessional thing I've ever admitted to a civilian.
The generator coughs. The light flickers again. This time it takes longer to comeback on.
"We might lose power completely," I warn her.
"I'm not afraid of the dark."
"I know." I move to the window, check the perimeter out of habit, even though I can't see much through the rain now streaking the glass. "But the dark makes it harder to see threats coming."
"Do you think they'll come tonight? The cartel?"
"Depends on how good their tracking is. How motivated they are. How much losing you pisses them off." I turn back to face her. "My guess is they'll regroup, reassess, and come at us when they're ready. Not in the middle of a storm."
