"Stay here while I check it out," I say.
The wind hits like a physical force when I open the door. I push through it to the cabin, unlock the door with the master key I keep for emergencies, and clear the interior. Empty, as expected. No signs of recent occupation except the supplies the service keeps stocked.
I wave Cara over. She grabs her bag and the evidence cases, moving fast through the storm. We get inside and I bar the door against the wind.
The cabin is cold but dry. One room with a wood stove, a small kitchen area, and two bunks built into the wall. Shelves hold canned goods, bottled water, emergency blankets. Everything we need to ride out the storm.
I get the fire started while Cara organizes our gear. The kindling catches quickly, flames spreading to larger logs until heat begins to fill the small space. The stove radiates warmth that pushes back the cold seeping through gaps in the walls.
"Not bad," Cara says, looking around. "I've stayed in worse safe houses."
"This is luxury compared to some of the places I slept in Afghanistan." I pull canned soup from the shelf and set it on the stove to heat. "We've got food, water, heat, and shelter. Could be a lot worse."
She settles on one of the bunks, allowing herself to relax now that we're safe. The evidence cases sit beside her, and the tension in her shoulders eases now that we're safe and the mission is complete.
We eat the soup straight from the cans, passing a single spoon back and forth because neither of us bothered to pack utensils. The intimacy of sharing a meal this way, sitting close enough that our knees almost touch, feels more significant than it should.
"Thank you," Cara says eventually. "For believing me. For helping me. For not turning me in when you had every reason to."
"You're not corrupt," I say simply. "Someone with resources and reach framed you to protect a trafficking network. Turning you in would just help the people who killed Tom and destroyed your career."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." I meet her eyes. "I know you photograph evidence like you're still building a legal case even though there's no official investigation. I know you treat elderly couples with dementia with genuine kindness instead of impatience. I know you're willing to risk everything to finish what Tom started, even though no one would blame you for just staying hidden and surviving."
Something shifts in her expression. Vulnerability I haven't seen before, the defensive walls coming down enough to show the woman underneath all the careful control.
"I'm tired," she admits quietly. "Three years of running, looking over my shoulder, trusting no one. Building a case I might never get to prosecute because the people I'm hunting have too much power and too much reach. Some days I wonder if it's worth it. If I should just disappear completely, give up, let someone else fight this battle."
"But you don't."
"No. Because those three agents who died in Stormwatch deserve justice. Because Tom was murdered for getting too close to the truth. Because if I give up, the Marshal wins and the network keeps operating and more people suffer." Her hands clench. "I can't let that happen."
I understand that stubborn refusal to quit even when quitting would be easier. The need to see things through because walking away feels like betraying everyone depending on you.
"When I lost my flight status," I say slowly, "I spent a bit of time being angry at everyone and everything. Angry at the Taliban fighter who got lucky with that RPG. Angry at the surgeons who couldn't fix the nerve damage. Angry at the system for deciding I was no longer useful. Angry at myself for not being good enough to overcome it."
"What changed?"
"Zeke showed up at my door one morning with a proposition. He needed someone who understood logistics and tactical operations to help investigate trafficking routes through the backcountry. Said he'd watched me make supply runs and thought I had the skills and the temperament for the work." I feed another log into the stove. "He gave me a way to matter again. A purpose that wasn't about what I lost but what I could still do."
"And now you're helping a fugitive investigate the same network."
"Now I'm helping someone who deserves better than what she got." I shift closer, the space between us charged with something I've been trying to ignore since she walked into Sadie's café. "You're not alone anymore, Cara. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
Her breath catches. Her pupils dilate, pulse jumping in her throat. The awareness between us ignites like the fire in the stove, sudden and consuming.
"Finn," she says, and my name on her lips undoes something fundamental in my chest.
I close the distance. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. She leans into the touch, eyes locked on mine, giving me permission without words.
The first kiss is gentle. Testing. Learning the shape of her mouth, the taste of her lips, the small sound she makes when I deepen the pressure. Her mouth opens under mine and I taste coffee and something darker, something that's pure Cara. Heat spreads through my chest when she responds, her tongue sliding against mine with no hesitation. But gentle doesn't last when three days of tension finally breaks.
Cara's fingers tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. The kiss turns desperate, hungry, both of us giving in to what's been building since the moment I recognized her and didn't turn her in. Her back hits the cabin wall and I press against her, feeling every curve of her body align with mine. She arches into me, and her nails scrape down my back through the fabric of my shirt, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
I work my hands under the hem of her thermal layer, finding warm skin that makes her gasp against my mouth. She's all lean muscle and soft curves, her stomach tensing under my palms as I explore higher. When my thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, she makes a sound that goes straight through me.
"Off," she breathes, tugging at my shirt. "Get it off."
