"Happy to help." Cara gestures to the hall. "Traci's room is next. Private bathroom, good sight lines through the window, reinforced door with interior lock. She controls her space."
They head toward Traci's room. I stay in the infirmary, checking angles and access points out of habit. Single entrance, defensible position, close enough to the main living area for support but isolated enough for privacy.
Sunlight catches Helena's profile through the doorway as she continues to tour the cabin with Cara. Strong features, confident stride, presence that draws attention without demanding it.
I force myself back to the tactical assessment. Sight lines. Defensive positions. Anything except how attracted I am to her competence.
Finn appears in the doorway. "Your quarters are across from Traci's room. Helena's staying in the infirmary. Close enough for medical response if Traci needs her, separate enough to give everyone space."
Close quarters. Helena and I separated by one hallway, proximity that'll make avoiding whatever's building between us difficult. Smart positioning for Traci's security. Complicated for everything else.
I head to find Traci's room. Door's open. She's inside with Helena, standing at the window looking out at the forest.
“Traci, come over here. Let me show you how this works.” Helena's showing her how the lock works. "Interior mechanism only. You control who comes in. Nobody else has a key."
Traci tests it. Locks. Unlocks. Locks again. Satisfied that she has control.
"Your uncle's room is across the hall," Helena continues. "I'm in the infirmary. If you need anything, write it down and slide it under his door. Or come find me. Whatever feels safer."
Traci pulls out her notebook. Writes. Shows it to Helena.
What if they find us here?
"Then your uncle and the others will handle it. That's their job. Your job is to stay safe and let the adults manage the threat." Helena's voice stays calm, matter-of-fact. "But Traci, I need you to trust something. For these people this isn’t their first rodeo. They’ve gone up against this network before, and so far, have prevailed. They know how they operate, know how to stop them. You're not alone in this anymore."
Traci looks at me. Question in her eyes.
"What she said," I confirm. "They come here, they go through me first. And I'm very good at stopping people who need stopping."
Not reassurance. Just fact. Delta Force trains you to eliminate threats with maximum efficiency. Four years in the wilderness didn't erase that skillset. If anything, isolation sharpened it.
Traci nods slowly. Accepts this because it's concrete and tactical rather than empty promises.
Helena gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Unpack. Get comfortable. I'll be in the infirmary if you need me."
She heads toward the door. Pauses next to me. Proximity closes the space between us—I catch her scent, something clean and professional with an edge of wilderness. My body registers her nearness before my brain catches up. "She's holding up better than expected. Giving her control over her space was the right call."
"Cara knows trauma survivors."
"So do you." Helena meets my eyes. Direct assessment that cuts through every defense. "You're doing better than you think with her."
The observation lands like a hit. Like she's seeing past the tactical positioning into territory I don't let anyone examine. My jaw locks. "Just following protocol."
"Protocol doesn't teach you how to read what a traumatized kid needs. Experience does." She holds my gaze longer than necessary. Heat builds in the narrow space between us—awareness, recognition, pull I'm not equipped to handle. Then she moves past me into the hallway.
I watch her go. Watch the confident stride, the way she carries herself like someone who's navigated dangerous territory and came out intact. Completely unaware of how her presence keeps pulling my focus when I should be mapping defensive positions.
My tactical discipline is compromised. Has been since this morning when she climbed out of her vehicle and looked like none of this was anything new.
I head to my assigned quarters. Small room, bed, dresser, window positioned for defensive sight lines. Gear goes in tactical arrangement—rifle within reach, ammunition accessible, escape route identified. Same setup I maintained in the cabin. Same habits I learned in Delta Force and never unlearned.
Muscle memory. The kind that keeps you alive when conscious thought shuts down.
Traci appears in my doorway while I'm organizing ammunition. She doesn't knock, just stands there watching me work with those careful eyes.
I pause. "You need something?"
She pulls out her notebook and writes, then shows me.
