“A helicopter,” I huff. “You’re not serious.”
But he is. Deadly.
“You’re not leaving,” he says, face grim.
“Not yet.”
He nods once.
My eyes snag on his chest. Pure muscle, angular planes. A black and gray First Recon insignia on one pectoral and coordinates on his left biceps. Different from the numbers that brought me here.
Still, this man lives by them.
His hand comes up, rubbing his chest. “Something you’re looking at?”
“The coordinates on your arm.” I’m already memorizing them. I raise an eyebrow, shooting him a questioning look.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. So, this is how it’s going to be.
“I’ll be staying for a while then.”
His face hardens. “Close quarters. No comfort.”
“As you said yourself, I’m a war correspondent. Seen and been through worse.”
But he doesn’t look convinced anything’s worse than standing here with me.
“Warm up.” He nods toward the hearth. “Coffee coming.”
I didn’t ask for that. For any of this. Still, my treacherous feet move toward the flames, skin prickling, teeth chattering.
I raise my hands, rubbing them together, soaking up the heat. It feels like a luxury in this place.
Minutes pass. I don’t know how long.
The floorboards creak. He hands me a chipped white mug of coffee. My hands curl around it, hungry for the heat. I breathe in the steam, staring into the greasy black.
“You bring cream?” he asks.
I nod toward one of the paper bags I placed near his small, makeshift pantry earlier.
“Just powder.”
“It’ll do. Want some?”
“Yes, please.” The last two words slam into me. Too polite. Too soft for this moment.
Our fingers brush when he hands the mug back, and I feel it far longer than contact should last.
He looks away, Adam’s apple working.
I blow on the hot liquid, then take a tentative sip. It’s what I need. I feel the heat go all the way down.
“Better.”
He barely reacts.
I don’t know how long passes. The place feels timeless. Birds chirp outside. Hens cluck and fuss.
