Turnip had curled up by the hearth. Blood stained his leathery skin. He looked content. Satisfied with his night’s work.
I didn’t look at Kallum. Couldn’t. If I looked at him, I’d have to think about the way my chest had hollowed out when the ridge stayed empty. The way his name had pounded through my head with every heartbeat. The relief that had almost dropped me to my knees.
So, I looked at my tea. At the table. At the embers in the hearth.
His knee touched mine under the table.
The contact was light. The barest brush of warmth through the fabric of my trousers. The kind of thing that happened when two people sat in a small space with their legs stretched out under a table that wasn’t quite big enough.
Accidental. Had to be accidental.
He didn’t move it away.
I sat very still. The shaking in my hands stilled. Everything went quiet, except for the blood rushing in my ears and the place where his knee pressed against mine.
I should shift. Pull back. Put distance between us. That would be the smart thing, the safe thing. We had enemies still out there and more coming and this was not the time.
I didn’t shift.
I didn’t pull back.
I let his knee stay pressed against mine, and I felt the warmth of it seep through the fabric, and I didn’t do a single thing about it.
“You’re good.” His voice was low. Rougher than usual, edged with something the night had scraped raw. “Under fire. Better than good.”
I made myself look up.
He was watching me. Those red eyes that had tracked enemies through the dark all night were fixed on my face now,cataloging every tremor, every tell. Blood still smeared across his temple. The cut of his jaw was sharp in the thin morning light. His mouth was a flat line, but there was something behind it. Something that didn’t match the stillness of his face.
“Torek trained me,” I said.
“Torek taught you toshoot.” He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “The rest is you.”
The warmth in my chest expanded. Pressed against my ribs. Made it hard to breathe.
I should look away. I should pull back my knee, pick up my tea, say something light and deflecting. I should do anything except sit here drowning in red eyes and pretending I couldn’t feel every place our bodies touched.
I didn’t.
His knee pressed harder against mine. Deliberate now. Unmistakable.
The question rose in my throat and came out before I had time to think. Before I could weigh whether I was ready for the answer, whether asking would break something I couldn’t put back together.
“What happens after?” My voice came out quiet. Raw. Like the words had scraped me hollow on the way out. “If we survive this?”
The silence filled the space, heavy and warm. His knee stayed pressed against mine. His eyes stayed fixed on my face. The fire crackled down to ash and the sun rose outside the window and somewhere in the fields, the enemy was regrouping, planning their next assault.
More were on their way.
But he didn’t answer, and I didn’t ask again. Neither of us pulled away.
His knee pressed harder. I felt it in my whole body, that small increase in pressure. Felt it like a promise. Like an answer that didn’t need words.
We sat in the silence and the warmth and the space between questions and answers. We sat with our knees touching and our tea going cold and the weight of what we weren’t saying filling up the room.
Outside, the sun finished rising on a farm full of bodies and traps and everything we’d built to survive.
Inside, I let myself feel the warmth of him against me, and I didn’t ask again. Didn’t pull away. Just waited to see what came next.
