We both knew the painkillers he gave me would put me out, but it's more fun playing with him this way.
"Allegedly," he replies innocently, picking up my game. "You needed the sleep, and you slept."
"I did." I hate how grateful my bones feel. "Don’t make a habit of being right. It’s unattractive."
"Noted."
He pulls out his phone. "We got some drone footage from last night."
I shift, set the coffee on my knee, and lean closer. The screen shows a husk of buildings stitched from concrete and rust. Corrugated roofs. A long, buckled strip that used to be a parade ground. Then it switches to thermal images. Heat sources move through the darkness. My pulse speeds up.
"Count with me," he says.
I do. A pocket behind a hangar. A cluster near the old motor pool. A line moving like a patrol along the fence. I count thirty-six; he taps four I missed. Forty.
"Definitely life," I say. "Not just rats and ghosts."
"People," he agrees. "Armed, most likely. The way they move is too tidy to be squatters."
"So we go in hot and heavy?" I ask, licking sugar off my thumb. I make it obvious. He notices; his gaze flicks to my mouth and back, disciplined but not dead. Good.
He gives me a skeptical glance, all mafia boss man, measuring risk and appetite. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
I lift my chin. "Once I take a shower, not even a freight train will stop me."
His mouth does that slow, maybe-smile. "Your brother called me last night."
I stop mid-reach for a frittata. "He did?"
"Hmm." He forks a bite of potatoes into his own mouth, chewing like this is the evening news. "Told me not to let you die and that you’re as stubborn as a mule. So I’ll ask again: how do you feel? And before you answer, consider that I like living."
I picture Grigori making that call, knowing the pride he had to swallow and then pretend wasn’t there. It tugs at something old and steel-edged in me. "He must have hated dialing your number," I mumble, trying for light and not quite making it.
Steph’s eyes soften one shade. "He hated it," he says honestly, with a hint of respect. "But he did it anyway."
Of course he did. My throat goes tight for a heartbeat, then the moment passes. I spear a corner of frittata, let the rosemary break clean across my tongue. "Fine," Iconcede. "I feel… ninety percent. The ten I’m missing is patience."
"Patience is the part that keeps you alive," he warns.
I shake my head and tilt it. "No, it's the part that keepsyoualive."
"Ugh," he laughs. "Logic before lunch."
"This is lunch." I correct, pointing the fork at the half-ruined pastry in my hand. "And logic says forty heat signatures is not a knock-and-ask situation." I tap the screen. "The motor pool is our entry. A few grenades will make a big firework distraction."
He nods in approval.
"See that dead ground between the fence and the south barracks?" I trace it. My finger almost brushes his; I leave it there half a second too long. He doesn’t move. "We could crawl that," I say, low. "Get ears on who runs what."
"We," he repeats, amused. "You and who else?"
"Me and the showered version of me," I say. "She’s faster, meaner, and has better hair."
He huffs a laugh. "Appealing as that is, you’re benched until I’m convinced you won’t fall asleep mid-infiltration and drool on my operation."
"Drool would be a new angle," I say. "Confuse the enemy. Weaponized boredom."
"Tempting," he says, not tempted at all. His thigh is close to mine now, close enough that heat becomes a fact. He doesn’t crowd. He offers the option. I take another sip of coffee to stop myself from taking it.
