On the way back, the wind whips the snow into our faces. Landon struggles up the last slope, boots slipping, hands shoved into his pockets. I slow down, let him catch up.
He’s shivering, face red, but when I offer him a hand, he laughs and grabs it. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”
“Not just,” I say.
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t let go.
We trudge the last hundred yards, then stop at the overlook. The world below us is blank, the valleys drowned in cloud, the sky burning pink and orange at the edge.
He stands there, breathing hard, then says, “Worth it.”
I look at him, his hair blown wild by the wind, his face raw and open.
“Yeah,” I say. “Worth it.”
We don’t say anything else. We just stand, hand in hand, watching the sun set on the world that doesn’t know where we are.
We stomp the snow from our boots on the threshold, and the blast of warmth from inside the chalet bites the skin of my face. Landon peels off his jacket, shaking out the cold, then tosses his gloves on the bench. His glasses fog from the change in temperature and I bite back a laugh. His cheeks are mottled red from the wind, the wet streaks on his hair thawing into dark curls.
He grins at me, then heads up the stairs, muttering something about defrosting his balls in the shower. I watch him go, let myself track the sway of his hips, then turn to the kitchen.
For the first time all day, I check my phone.
I keep it in a lead-lined pouch, shielded from accidental pings and tracking bots, but the second I open it there’s a pulse of notifications. Five new messages, three from Brooks,one from a burner I don’t recognize, and one—encrypted, of course—from the Director.
I pour a glass of water, set it on the counter, and read the first message.
Brooks: “STATUS?” Simple, to the point. He always was a lazy communicator.
Second: “Saw drone on SW ridge, could be local or freelance. Do not engage unless positive ID.”
Third: “Dinner tomorrow night at 2100. I won’t be there, but I’ve reserved Marcus to come and prepare you both a five course meal. Consider it a thank you for ensuring you take care of my place. Please wear something that isn’t tactical gear.”
I snort, then swipe to the burner. The number is unfamiliar, the message shorter still.
“Check perimeter. Dead drop at north gate.”
The last is from the Director. The subject line is blank, the body of the message only a single line:
There is nowhere beyond our reach. Enjoy your temporary peace.
I laugh, low in my chest, and let the phone screen time out. There’s a part of me that wants to draft a reply—something sharp, maybe a taunt, maybe just a blank message to let them know I’m still alive and still not afraid. But I don’t.
I shut the phone off, drop it back in the pouch, and seal it with the copper mesh. I bury it under the kitchen sink, behind the garbage, the way a normal person hides booze or cigarettes from themselves.
If they want to find me, they’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.
When I look up, Landon is at the bottom of the stairs, hair wet, wearing nothing but a towel slung low across his hips. He stands in the archway, water beading on his skin, his arms folded over his chest.
I cross the room and stop a foot away, close enough to feel the heat from his body.
He raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Nothing urgent.”
He smiles, a little crooked. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I step closer, run my hand up his arm. “Maybe I just don’t want to ruin the night.”
