“Sit,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “You give a lot of instructions.”
“You’ve been barefoot in thirty-eight-degree air.”
That is not inaccurate, so I sit.
He kneels in front of the fireplace and sets a match to kindling with hands that don’t hesitate. Flame catches quickly. He builds it with quiet competence, stacking wood the way someone does when they’ve done it before.
Within minutes, warmth begins to push back the cold. The transformation is subtle but real. The mountain man comment I almost make dies before it reaches my lips. He stands and crosses to a storage cabinet near the kitchen area. Opens it.
Inside, I see vacuum-sealed packages, labeled bins, bottled water, emergency ration kits.
He pulls out two items and sets them on the counter.
“Clothing,” he says.
I stand and approach cautiously. Inside the first package, I find thermal leggings and an oversized flannel shirt. There are also thick socks. The second package holds plain gray sweatpants and underwear. It’s not tailored to fit. But, it’s safe, warm clothing. Totally not flattering.
“You stock women’s sizes often?” I ask.
“Standard issue covers a range.”
I pick up the flannel. It smells faintly of detergent and storage plastic. Not him. That shouldn’t disappoint me.
“There’s dried food,” he continues. “Protein packs. Rice. Freeze-dried meals. Generator-backed freezer in the lower storage if power goes out.”
He speaks like he’s reading inventory. But his eyes are on me. Not my body. My condition.
I hold the flannel against myself. “And if someone followed us?”
“They didn’t.”
Certainty.
“How do you know?”
“I would’ve seen it.”
His confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s assessment. That should calm me. It doesn’t. Because confidence fails when the variable is unknown. And he still doesn’t know the variable.
“I need a shower,” I say.
He nods once. “Hot water’s limited. Ten minutes.”
I step toward the hallway, then pause.
“What is this place?” I ask without turning.
“A contingency.”
“For what?”
“For tonight.”
That is not an answer. But it is honest. I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a moment. For one reckless second, I consider letting go of being Katerina.
Then I remember — rooms like this could have eyes.
