We find a rock formation that makes a natural bench and sit to catch our breath. The stone is sun-warmed beneath us, the air cooler at this elevation. Sweat beads along her hairline, catching the light like tiny diamonds.
I reach into my backpack and pull out a water bottle, taking a long drink before offering it to her. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and I try not to react to the contact.
"Thanks," she says, tilting her head back as she drinks.
I can't help but watch as her throat works, a drop of water escaping to trail slowly down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her jacket. I'm suddenly aware of how dry my own mouth is, despite having just had water.
She catches me staring and doesn't look away. Just wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, simple, unbothered. A small thing. But damn if it doesn't hit like a punch to the gut.
The air between us tightens.
I clear my throat, forcing my gaze up to a hawk circling above us. Anything to cool the heat simmeringbetween us.
She takes another sip of water, then leans back on her hands, exhaling slowly. "So, was all that Navy SEAL pacing just to show off, or...?"
I huff a quiet laugh. "Force Recon, not SEAL. And not showing off. I run this trail every day, remember?"
"Right," she says, smiling. "Because a casual seven-minute mile uphill is just normal. Are you sure you weren't trying to impress me?"
I glance at her. "Would it have worked?"
She gives me a sly half-smile. "Maybe."
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I don't let it grow.
She tilts her head, studying me again. "So, Force Recon..."
The question is a welcome distraction from the dangerous direction of my thoughts. I confirm. "Force Recon. Seven years. Running with full gear makes you appreciate running without it."
She sounds impressed. "That's Marine special operations, right?"
"You know your military units."
She shrugs. "I did some USO tours when I was younger. Picked things up."
"And the fighting skills?" she asks, curiosity evident in her tone. "You weren't always that good, I see." She says pointing playfully to the scar on my face.
A complicated question with a complicated answer. "Life," I say simply. "Grew up in a rough neighborhood in Baltimore. You either learned to fight or you became a victim."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "That's why I learned," she admits quietly.
I wait, giving her space to continue or not.
"I was in a... situation once. Where I was powerless." Her voice drops, and she stares out at the horizon rather than meeting my gaze. "It's not a good place to be. I swore I'd never be powerless again."
The weight of her words, what they imply, settles heavy in my chest. I think of the "Little Doll" notes, her reaction to her mother, the pieces of her story that she shared with Ethan and that he shared with us. I don't push for details she's not ready to give.
"Being powerless changes you," I say instead. "Makes you see the world differently. Makes you build walls."
She looks at me now, like she's searching for something in my face. "You sound like you know."
"I do." It's more than I usually share, but something about the moment, about her vulnerability, makes me continue. "My father was... not a good man. Used his fists to make his points. On my mother. On me. On anyone who crossed him."
"I'm sorry," she sayssoftly.
"It was a long time ago," I say, though some wounds never fully heal. "But it taught me early that strength isn't just about muscle. It's about control. Choice. Using power to protect, not to hurt."
"Is that why you became a bodyguard? To protect?"
