I throw the blanket off. It crinkles like a gunshot in the quiet woods.
I roll out of the shelter and stand. The cold hits me instantly, freezing the sweat on my skin. It’s good. It kills the heat. It kills the want. The need.
I walk ten paces away, turning my back to the shelter. I unzip my fly and relieve myself against a tree, staring into the gray predawn mist.
My ribs throb where she elbowed me yesterday. Good. Pain is clarifying.
Behind me, she moves. The rustle of the blanket. The soft grunt of effort as she stands on stiff muscles.
“Halo?”
I zip. Adjust my belt. Check my weapon.
When I turn around, she’s standing by the fallen oak. She looks wrecked. Leaves in her hair. Dirt on her cheek. The oversized thermal shirt hangs off her frame.
She looks beautiful.
I look away. “Pack up. We leave in five.”
“Good morning to you too,” she says. Her voice is raspy.
“We lost four hours. Phoenix has had time to reposition. They’ll have drones grid-searching the woods by sunrise.”
“I slept,” she says. She sounds surprised. “I actually slept.”
“You were exhausted. Hypothermia does that.”
“It wasn’t the hypothermia.” She looks at me. Direct. Unflinching. “It was you.”
I stiffen. “Don’t.”
“Don’t, what?”
“Don’t make it personal. I was a heat source. That’s it.”
She studies me. She sees right through the tactical armor, right through the bullshit. She sees the man who held her hand.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Heat source. Got it.”
She turns and starts rolling up the emergency blanket.
She smooths the foil with efficient, capable hands.
I hate that she’s making this easy for me. I want her to fight, to argue, to give me a reason to be the asshole I need to be. Instead, she’s just—accepting it.
“Boots check,” I say. “How are the feet?”
“Numb.”
“Let me see.”
“They’re fine.”
“Cassie.”
She sighs. Sits on the log. Pulls off the right sneaker.
I kneel. The wool sock is damp. I peel it back.
