"I extracted civilians from an active fire zone against direct orders." His voice is bitter. Cold. "Court-martial offense. They gave me an Other than Honorable discharge and told me to disappear. So I did."
"But you saved them." I lean forward slightly. "That's what mattered."
His laugh is harsh. "I saved them so they could die anyway when their government abandoned them and the warlords came back. Rules exist for reasons, Neve. Sometimes following them is the only way to survive."
"And sometimes rules protect the wrong things." The words come out before I can stop them. Truth I've been carrying since my mentor died and I couldn't save her because I followed protocol instead of instinct.
He looks at me. Really looks. Sees something in my expression that makes his own soften slightly. "What rules did you follow?"
"All of them." My throat is tight. "Dr. Lydia Bryan was my advisor. Brilliant researcher. She got sick during field work in the Arctic. Standard protocol was to wait for medevac. I followed protocol. She died waiting."
"Medevac delay isn't your fault."
"I know that." I wrap my hands around my mug. "Logically I know that. But logic doesn't change the fact that if I'd broken protocol, stolen equipment, done something instead of waiting for authorization, she might have survived. I followed the rules and she died."
Silence falls between us. Heavier now. Weighted with my admission.
"You're blaming yourself for something that wasn't in your control," he says finally. Not sympathetic. Just observing. "That's a waste of energy."
"Easy to say when you're not the one who?—"
"I'd make the same choice again." He cuts me off. Voice flat. Certain. "Saved those civilians knowing exactly what it would cost me. Would do it tomorrow if the situation repeated. That's not guilt. That's consequences I accepted."
I stare at him. "You don't regret it?"
"Regret doesn't change outcomes. It just makes you hesitate next time." He stands, collecting dishes. "You followed protocol because that's what you were trained to do. Your mentor died because medevac was delayed, not because you weren't brave enough to steal a helicopter."
The bluntness should sting. Instead it cuts through the fog I've been carrying for months.
"So I should just... stop feeling guilty?" It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
His mouth tilts up slightly. Not quite sympathy. "You'll feel however you feel. But beating yourself up over decisions you made with incomplete information in impossible situations?" He shrugs. "That's just you making yourself suffer twice."
We sit in comfortable silence for the first time since I crashed into his plane yesterday. Something shifts between us—not exactly understanding, but recognition. Two people who made impossible choices and lived with the aftermath.
"You're not what I expected." He says it quietly. Statement of fact rather than judgment.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd break under pressure. Soft academic who couldn't handle real danger." He studies me across the table. "You're tougher than you look."
"You're less of an asshole than you pretend to be." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Surprise flickers across his face. Then his mouth tilts up again. "Don't spread that around. Bad for my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me." I'm smiling. Can't help it. This version of him—slightly less guarded, more human—is dangerously appealing in ways the cold survivalist wasn't.
Wrong. So wrong. I can't afford to like him. Can't afford to see him as anything except temporary safety until this nightmare ends and I can get back to my life. Except my life is destroyed. Research equipment gone. Data wiped or burned. Trail cameras probably smashed to pieces by now. Everything I worked for reduced to ash because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Where do you go from here?" He asks it like he's reading my thoughts. "After this. When the traffickers are handled and you're safe."
"I don't know." The admission scares me more than the men with guns. "They probably destroyed everything. All my equipment. My data. Months of work gone. And I've got nothing to show for the grant that funded me. Try explaining to a review board why you can't provide results because you accidentally documented human trafficking instead of wolf migration patterns."
"Someone who values what you found." His voice is firm. Certain. "Someone who recognizes that courage matters more than careful career planning."
"Is that what you did? Valued courage over career?"
"I valued living with myself over living according to someone else's rules." He stands, collecting dishes. "That's all anyone can do."
