I turned. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the lamp behind her.
“Be careful. Come back to me.”
I crossed to her. Cupped her face in my hands. “I’ll be on comms the entire time. Anything changes, you tell me. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate.”
“Same goes for you.”
I kissed her. Slower than I wanted. Her mouth was warm and she tasted like the tea she’d been drinking, something herbal that Torek must have planted. Her palms landed on my chest, then slid around to my back, pulling me closer.
I let her.
For a moment, I wasn’t a ghost. I wasn’t a weapon. I was just a man holding a woman in a farmhouse kitchen, wishing the night would stop.
Her fingers brushed my wounded side, careful, checking.
“It’s holding,” I said against her mouth.
“It better.” She pulled back. Her eyes were bright. Not with tears. Something fiercer. “I didn’t stitch you up just to watch you bleed out on a ridge.”
“I’ll try to accommodate.”
Her laugh was short. Sharp. The kind of laugh that covered something else.
I memorized it anyway. The sound of her. The smell of her hair, woodsmoke and something green. The calluses on her palms where they pressed against my shoulders.
Just in case.
“Don’t die,” she said.
“You first.”
I left before either of us could say anything else.
The processing stationsat on the ridge, a squat building half-buried in rock. Torek had built it to last. The walls were reinforced. The power supply was independent. The controls hummed with quiet readiness as I powered up the console.
“Station online.” I tapped my earpiece. “Anhara, confirm.”
“Farmhouse online. Systems green.”
Her voice in my ear. Even through the static, it steadied something in my chest.
“Initiating synchronization,” I said. “Mark.”
“Mark.”
The console lit up. Pressure readings, flow rates, a dozen variables I’d memorized in the past four hours. Torek’s system was elegant. Complex, but elegant. Every part dependent on every other part.
If I made a mistake, she’d know.
If she made a mistake, I’d know.
The first hours passed in careful coordination. Her voice calling numbers.
My hands making adjustments. The vault’s systems responded, layer by layer, like something waking from a long sleep.
We found a rhythm. She’d call an adjustment, I’d confirm. She’d check my status, I’d deflect. She’d call me on the deflection, I’d deflect harder.
Somewhere in the middle, it stopped being work and started being conversation.
