"Room 118," I tell her.
She follows me silently, staying close as we approach the door. I scan the lot one more time before unlocking it. Her orange pants are dirty enough that they aren't as loud as they would be if they were clean, but it's best to keep her from being seen until she can change.
The room is exactly what I expected from the state of the place outside—worn carpet, faded landscape prints, a bedspread that's seen better decades. But it’s better than a cold, wet forest or a prison cell, and it’s the kind of place that doesn’t want to know the people inside its walls.
Naomi steps inside. I lock the door behind us, engage the security chain, and draw the blackout curtains. We move together, carefully but quickly and in sync, like we've been doing this for years.
"You should shower," I say, dropping my bag on the chair by the window. “I'll get you some clothes. Food too. After that, you should rest. We've got a long way to go tomorrow."
"Where?" she asks.
"Away from here. We have to keep moving." I move toward the door. "Lock this behind me. Don't answer for anyone but me. Three knocks, pause, then two more."
She turns to me then and really looks at me for the first time since we left the burning cabin. In the dark, mundane quiet of the hotel room, her prison uniform, the dirt, the exhaustion, and everything that's happened between us in the past day or so come into stark focus.
"Walker.” She says my name like it isn’t new to her. Like she’s been saying it for years. "Thank you."
I nod once. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to thank me. But then I risk admitting to her just how far I would go to help her. And I’m not sure I even know myself. Instead, I say, “I won't be long.”
The door closes behind me, and I hear the lock click into place.
I arrive at the local department store twenty minutes later. I push my cart through the nearly empty aisles, grabbing essentials. Another cheap duffel for her since I wasn't planning to have company when I left. Next are women's clothes.
My hands hesitate over the rack of women's underwear. I grab a pack, toss it in quickly like it might burn me, then do the same with some bras. Been a while since I've touched anything like that. Been even longer since I've thought about a woman wearing it. I should have asked her sizes. I’m just guessing.
Some super soldier I am. I can kill, survive. Plan. Execute. But I don’t think I could have asked her what size panties or bra she wears.
I should go away. Leave her the truck, disappear into the night. That's what survival instinct tells me. But something won't let me.
My fingers brush across a soft cotton T-shirt. I try to focus on practicality. Size. Durability. Not how it might look on her.
And I fail miserably. I want it to hug her curves. I want to dress her and strip her and hug them myself.
She asked why I was helping her. My answer didn’t feellike a lie. And it isn’t. But she’s right to question it. Here, in the harsh fluorescent light of the store, I don’t understand it myself. What the hell am I doing? Risking everything for a woman I barely know. A prison escapee with people hunting her—people willing to kill to get her back. People who'll now try to kill me, too.
I grab jeans, a hoodie, and socks. Also, some yoga pants. Not because they’ll look amazing sculpted to her perfect hips, ass, and legs. But because it’s what’s normal fashion nowadays.
I move on to food. Toss in some granola bars. Jerky. Water bottles. Toiletries are next. A razor to shave that exquisite body. If she wants to.
I pay cash, keeping my head down so my cowboy hat covers my face. The cashier barely looks at me.
When I get back to the motel room, I knock the rhythm I told Naomi to listen for. After a moment, the chain moves and the door opens. I mean to move inside quickly, but I can’t when I see what’s in front of me.
Naomi stands there, wrapped only in a cheap white motel towel. Her hair's still damp, curling slightly at the ends. Steam escapes the bathroom behind her. Her skin is flushed pink, scrubbed clean, glowing in the dim light. She is no longer the primal goddess in moonlight. She’s the transcendent angel in sunlight. Clean. Pure. An absolute vision.
My throat goes dry. Naomi looks confused for a moment and then steps aside so I can enter. I recover what sense I can and step inside quickly, closing the door behind me. I take a moment before I turn again.
"You okay?" she asks, looking at my face.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. Set the bags down on the bed. "Got you some things,” I grunt out.
She sifts through them, pulling out items one by one. The simple, practical clothes I've chosen suddenly seeminadequate. Should've gotten something nicer. Something worthy of her.
"These are great," she says, pulling out the clothing I got her. Including the tight yoga pants and panties. "Thank you."
I clear my throat. "I'm going to shower now. I was all right having a stink when we were both a little ripe, but now that you're clean, I think I'll join you."
That earns me the whisper of a smile. Just a slight curve of her lips, but it hits me square in the chest. Makes me want to see the whole thing again—a real smile, one that lights up fully those pretty blue-gray eyes.
