I head outside with Finn. We run perimeter checks together, verify sensor placement, identify defensive positions if we need to hold the compound. Muscle memory from Delta Force kicks in—assess terrain, establish kill zones, prepare fallback positions. The skillset I tried to bury for four years surfaces like it never left.
It's comfortable. Too comfortable.
"You're slipping back into operative mode," Finn observes. It's not criticism. Just recognition.
"Hard not to when threats are actively hunting my niece."
"I get it. After Cara came here running from federal agents, I went full tactical for months. Every vehicle on the road was a potential threat. Every stranger in town was surveillance. Took me a while to dial it back."
"How'd you manage it?"
"Cara." Simple answer. "She reminded me that survival isn't the same as living. That staying in operator mode permanently just means the network wins in a different way."
I process that. Look back at the compound where Helena's probably helping Traci settle into her evening routine. Staying alert herself while also trying to maintain some semblance of normal life.
"Don't know if I can do both," I say.
"You won't know until you try." Finn checks the last sensor. Green light. "Come on. Cara's making dinner. We eat like humans, not operatives. At least for tonight."
Inside, the compound has transformed. Cara's in the kitchen cooking something that smells like actual food rather thanfield rations. Helena's setting the table, moving with easy competence. Traci is out of her room, drawn by the smell or maybe just by the sense that something normal is happening.
Finn was right. We need this reminder that we're people, not just tactical assets preparing for the next engagement.
Dinner happens around the large table. Conversation flows naturally—Cara asking Helena about her medical practice, Finn sharing stories about supply runs to remote homesteads, everyone carefully avoiding direct discussion of trafficking networks and professional contractors hunting us.
Traci sits quietly, eating more than usual. Watching the adults interact with something that might be cautious interest. Learning that meals can be safe. That conversation doesn't always lead to danger.
Helena catches my eye across the table. Holds it longer than tactical coordination requires. Her lips curve—not quite a smile, more like recognition of what's building between us whether we acknowledge it or not.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I break eye contact first, focus on my plate, try to ignore how my body responded to five seconds of direct attention from her.
After dinner, people disperse to their assigned tasks. Finn takes first perimeter watch. Cara monitors communications. Helena helps Traci with her evening routine, voice low and reassuring through Traci's closed door.
I head outside to run one more security check before full dark. Scan the forest, verify sensors, map potential approach vectors out of habit.
Light spills from the infirmary window. Helena moving inside, organizing something. The glow catches her profile—strong features, capable hands. Watching her work sends a spike of want through me that has nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the woman herself.
I tear my gaze away. Force myself back to the perimeter. To threats I can identify and eliminate.
But the awareness lingers like her scent did this afternoon. Helena wanting to talk later. Whatever conversation she's planning required privacy and evening quiet.
Part of me knows that conversation is going to crack open things I've kept locked down for four years.
It's dangerous. The kind of risk that has nothing to do with bullets and everything to do with letting someone see the damage underneath the tactical facade.
Operational discipline says maintain distance. Keep relationships professional. Don't let personal complications compromise tactical effectiveness.
Four years of isolation says I've already failed at that.
I finish the perimeter check and head inside. Traci's door is closed, light visible underneath. She's probably reading or writing in her notebook, processing everything that happened today.
My quarters feel smaller than they did earlier. The walls are pressing in, reminding me I'm not isolated anymore. That people are nearby expecting me to function as part of a team rather than alone in the wilderness.
I strip down to base layer. Check weapons out of habit. Verify ammunition placement. Run through defensive scenarios until mental discipline overrides the hypervigilance.
But underneath the tactical thinking, awareness hums. When Traci is settled I'm supposed to sit across from Helena and pretend the pull between us isn't real.
Footsteps in the hallway. Helena's voice, low and professional, talking to Traci through her closed door. "Sleep well. I'm right down the hall if you need anything."
