"The garden." I turn to face him. "Let me clear it out. I need to use my hands."
"No."
"Diesel—"
"You don't go outside."
"After dark. Behind the cottage. You said the sight lines were clear back there."
"No."
"I'm not an idiot." I keep my voice steady. "I'm not going to wander off or make noise or do anything that puts me at risk. You'll be right there. I'll do exactly what you say. I just—" I stop myself before the desperation bleeds through. "Diesel, I'm going to lose my mind. I can feel it fraying at the edges." I force myself to hold his gaze. "Maybe if I wear myself out, I'll actually sleep tonight."
He goes still.
His jaw tightens.
He's quiet for a long moment. I can almost see him doing the math—my safety versus my sanity.
"You stay where I can see you," he says finally. His voice is rough. "You hear anything—anything at all—you get inside. No arguments."
"No arguments."
He looks at me, then sighs and sets down the leather.
"Sundown's in four hours. Find something to do until then."
I go back to the book. The words still swim.
But at least now I have something to wait for.
***
The sun drops behind the tree line around seven.
Diesel checks the windows one more time, then heads for the closet and comes back with gloves and a flannel shirt, big enough to fit two of me.
"It's cold out there." He holds it out without looking at me. "Maya didn't exactly pack for night work."
I take it. The fabric is warm from being stored, and it smells like him—cedar and bourbon. I shrug it on over Maya's thin t-shirt, and the sleeves fall past my fingertips.
He looks at me for half a second, then looks away.
"Gloves are too big," he says. "Deal with it."
The gloves swallow my hands whole. I don't care.
The air bites cold on my face when we step outside, sharp with pine and dirt. Two days trapped in that cottage, and I'd almost forgotten what fresh air felt like.
The moon is high, bright enough to see by. Diesel moves through the dark easily—orc eyes, I remember. He can see fine. I'm the one stumbling over roots.
"We're pulling weeds," he says, handing me a bucket. "Nothing fancy. Just clear out the beds along the fence."
The overgrown mess he's pointing to is more jungle than garden—waist-high grass, thorny vines, something with pale flowers ghostly in the moonlight.
"I can do that."
"You ever pulled weeds before?"
