"You did what you had to do."
"I killed a man, Deck. I've sent people to prison for exactly what I did."
"You defended yourself against someone who came to murder you. That's not the same thing, and you know it." He steps closer, and his voice softens. "You survived. That's what matters."
"I keep seeing his face. When I close my eyes. When I try to sleep." The confession comes out barely above a whisper. "Is that normal? To see them?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No platitudes. Just acknowledgment. "It gets easier to carry. Not lighter. Just easier to carry."
"Does it ever go away?"
"No." He holds my gaze. "But you learn to live with it. Make it part of who you are without letting it consume you."
We stand there in the forest, two people bound by violence we never asked for. Recognition. Understanding. The particular intimacy of shared trauma.
I want to touch him. Want to reach out and bridge the distance between us, feel the solid warmth of his body grounding me. The urge is so strong my fingers twitch at my sides.
"We should head back." His voice has gone rough. "You need lunch before afternoon training."
The moment fractures. He turns and starts walking toward the cabin, and I follow, my heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
That afternoon,he teaches me how to move silently through terrain.
It sounds simple. Walk without making noise. But there's an art to it that involves foot placement and weight distribution and breath control. After an hour of practice, my thighs are burning and I've managed to not snap a twig exactly four times.
"You're improving." Deck moves beside me like a ghost, his footsteps completely silent despite his size. It's both impressive and deeply annoying.
"I'm dying. There's a difference."
"Pain is information. It tells you you're pushing your limits." He stops at a fallen log and gestures for me to sit. "Rest. Hydrate."
I collapse onto the log with zero grace, grabbing the water bottle he hands me. We're in a small clearing about half a mile from the cabin, surrounded by towering pines that block most of the weak December sunlight.
"Can I ask you something?" I take a long drink, watching him over the rim of the bottle.
"You've been asking me things all day."
"Something personal."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "What?"
"Why Guardian Peak? After Kandahar, you could have done anything. Private security in some city, consulting, training. Why build something new out here in the middle of nowhere?"
He's quiet for a long moment, staring into the trees.
"After my discharge, I couldn't be around people. The noise. The crowds. Everyone moving and talking and living like the world made sense." He shifts his weight, and I notice how his hand automatically goes to his side where I know he carries a concealed weapon. "I drove until I couldn't drive anymore. Ended up here. The mountains felt right. Quiet. Defensible. Far from anything that could hurt me."
"And the others? Your team?"
"Found them over the next few years. Mace tracked me down about eighteen months after I left. Said he couldn't go back to normal life either. Wolfe was next. Then the others, one by one." His voice warms slightly. "We built this company together. Gave ourselves a mission when we didn't have one anymore."
"Protecting people."
"Protecting people who need it. On our terms. Without the bureaucratic bullshit that got my team killed." He looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "That's why I agreed to this assignment. Because you deserve protection that actually works. Not federal half-measures and compromised safe houses."
"Is that the only reason?"
He holds my gaze for a beat too long before looking away.
