Rook moves first, darker coat and broader chest, always a half-step ahead like he’s testing the world for weaknesses. Ash follows close behind—lighter, faster, more precise. He reads terrain the way some men read maps. They don’t need commands shouted into the air. They check back often, amber eyes flicking toward me for signals I give without thinking—two fingers lifted, a shift in pace, a pause that means listen.
Out here, they’re not pets—they’re partners. They know when to range and when to close, when to press forward and when to hold. They know the difference between play and work, sound and threat. I trust them the way I trust my own hands, because I built that trust, day by day, in silence.
I follow a set of tracks down toward a narrow creek bed, crouching to study the print. It’s fresh and heavy. I smile faintly,the expression unused enough that it feels unfamiliar on my face. A good hunt doesn’t make noise about itself; it just unfolds.
I rise slowly, scan the tree line, and take a moment to check the perimeter as I go—not because I expect trouble, but because I never assume I won’t find it. Motion sensors are quiet. No disturbances on the far ridge. The blind spot near the eastern slope remains just that—a blind spot by design, funneling anything that gets too curious into a place where I’ll see it long before it sees me.
The closest town is miles away, barely a dot on a map most people would need to squint at. Out here, privacy isn’t a setting; it’s terrain. I built it that way. Layers of distance, elevation, and silence. The kind of isolation that keeps questions from forming in the first place.
I spot the deer just as it lifts its head, ears twitching—alert but unalarmed. I settle into position, body aligning without conscious thought, breathing slowing until the world narrows to one clear line. All it takes is one clean shot, ringing through the woods, and the deer goes down.
I lower the rifle and move forward, resting a hand briefly on the animal’s flank once it’s done.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I field dress with practiced efficiency, movements unhurried. This will feed the dogs and me well before our next hunt.
As I shoulder the pack and turn back toward the house, the sun finally crests the ridge, spilling gold across the valley. Out here, I’m not silent because I’m hiding. I’m quiet because there’s nothing I need to defend. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I start the long walk home.
The house reveals itself gradually as I move through the trees. Steel and reinforced glass rise clean and deliberate from the rock—all hard lines and intention, the structure cut into the mountain instead of sitting on top of it. From a distance, it looks almost reflective enough to disappear, sky and forest mirrored back at themselves.
That was the point.
The dogs break ahead, picking up speed as we close in. I slow, letting my gaze sweep the perimeter one last time out of habit. Sensors stay green—no disturbances or anomalies. The quiet remains unbroken.
Inside, the temperature shifts immediately—controlled and steady. I shed my pack and rifle near the entry, movements economical, gear placed exactly where my hands expect it to be. The dogs circle once before settling near the long stretch of windows that line the main room, tails thumping softly against polished concrete.
I move through the space the way I always do—checking locks, scanning sightlines, and verifying that nothing has changed while I was gone. The house is glass-heavy by design. I like to see what’s coming, like knowing where the light falls at different hours, how shadows move across the floor as the day progresses.
After confirming all is safe, I hang the meat in the cold room, portioning with care, setting aside enough for the dogs before storing the rest. They watch me closely, eyes bright, posture patient. Good animals understand order.
“Sit,” I tell them, and they do.
I cut generous portions and set the bowls down, stepping back to give them space. They eat quietly, focused—the sound of it grounding in a way I don’t question.
I clean my hands at the sink, water running hot, steam curling up toward the ceiling. Outside, the mountains stretch endlessly, framed by glass so clear it sometimes feels like the world beyond is part of the room. I lean there for a moment, forearms braced against the counter, eyes scanning the tree line out of habit more than concern.
This place holds me the way cities never could. There’s no crowding here, no overlapping lives pressing in from all sides. Just distance, space, and silence that listens back. I tell myself this is peace. That a year is enough time to put something behind you.
That’s the lie I tell myself as I move through the house, until I get to my office and plop myself behind my desk.
The laptop hums softly when I open it, the screen coming to life in seconds. A folder sits alone on the desktop, unmarked except for a date I don’t need to read twice. I don’t remember creatingit. That’s another lie. I remember exactly when and why. I just don’t like acknowledging it.
I stare at it longer than necessary.
A year.
A year since Somalia. A year since I shut that door and didn’t look back. A year is enough time to let something settle into the past where it belongs. Apparently, it’s not enough time to delete a file.
I click it open, and the single image fills the screen instantly. Kate, captured mid-movement on the stairs at the gala in Mogadishu. She isn’t looking at the camera; she’s laughing at something Addison said, head tipped back slightly, hair catching the light just right. There’s color in her cheeks, warmth in her expression that has nothing to do with the heat of the room.
I remember the moment with uncomfortable precision—the way the light shifted, the instinct that made me lift the camera without thinking, the way my finger pressed the shutter like it was any other part of the job. That’s another lie. I took the photo because I wanted to keep her.
Not in the way men like me aren’t allowed to want. Not as possession, but as proof—evidence that she existed in my world, however briefly. That she wasn’t something I imagined in the spaces between missions.
I should have deleted it. I knew that then. I know it now. One image becomes two, becomes a habit, becomes a weakness. I don’t collect weaknesses, and yet, I sit here, forearms braced on the table, eyes locked on the screen, and let the memory run its course. The sound of her voice filled the silence. The way she filled space without asking permission. The way she talked, like the world would listen if she just kept going.
I close my eyes briefly. I tell myself she’s behind me. That whatever I felt was situational, manufactured by proximity, adrenaline, and the kind of chaos that blurs lines. I tell myself that walking away was the right call.
