His eyes flick to me, quick, then back to the window.
He doesn't say thank you.
He doesn't say anything.
But his shoulders loosen by a fraction, as if his body heard the sentence before his mind decided what to do with it.
The final stretch is a private drive, gravel and dirt winding through two miles of trees. The canopy overhead filters the light into shifting patches that strobe across the hood of the car, dizzying and erratic.
The air smells different here—cold earth, wet bark, wood smoke from somewhere far away.
Then the house appears.
Timber and stone. Two stories. Built to blend into the landscape instead of dominating it. Solar panels on the roof catch the weak sun. A shed behind it. The lake beyond, flat and metallic, reflects the sky like a blade.
I cut the engine.
For a moment, we just sit, listening.
Branches creak. A bird calls. Somewhere, something small moves through the leaves.
I kill the engine and sit still. Gravel settles under the tires. The silence isn't peaceful; it's exposure in a different direction.
I've brought him to the only place I never intended to share.
That fact sits heavy in my gut, not because it's sentimental, but because it's irreversible. Once someone is inside your contingency, it stops being solely yours.
"We sweep," Maksim says, professional again. "Standard."
"Yeah," I reply.
We step outside, and the cold bites immediately—cleaner than the city cold. It finds the edges of my lungs as I inhale.
At the door, I press my palm to the scanner.
A soft chime sounds.
Locks disengage.
Inside, it's exactly as I left it: clean lines, natural materials, and functional. The fireplace is on the north wall, the kitchen is stocked with shelf-stable food, and there's a table that doesn'texist to impress anyone. Stairs lead up to the bedrooms that overlook the lake.
Maksim moves through the interior with the same precision as always, but I notice the differences—the way he pauses a fraction longer in the hallway before crossing in front of a window, how his eyes linger on the lock mechanism as if contemplating its potential failure, and how he checks the back door twice.
He completes his sweep and returns to the living area.
"Clear," he says. "Sight lines are good. Multiple exits. The dock gives us a second route."
"There's a boat in the shed," I reply. "Fueled."
He nods.
But instead of moving into a guard
position, he stands in the center of the room, looking at me as if he's balancing something on the edge of his teeth.
"Sir," he begins.
"You can stop calling me that," I interject too quickly. "We're alone. There's no one here to listen."
