"Being scared and doing the right thing anyway? That's courage." Eli's voice gentles slightly. "Get some rest. We're going to step up security. Nobody's getting close again."
But Traci's still writing:
Did you kill anyone?
She needs to know what he's capable of.
"I shot a couple of them. Non-fatal wounds. They'll survive, but they won't forget what it costs to come at this compound."
Traci nods slowly. Writes again:
I feel safe with you and Helena. Even when I'm scared.
I can see it in Eli's expression. The weight of it.
"That's what matters," he says quietly. "Now sleep. Tomorrow's complicated."
Once Traci's back in her room, the door locked, I find Eli outside checking sensors again. Compulsive need to verify what technology already confirms. The perimeter is clear.
"They're gone."
"For now."
The night air is cold enough to see our breath. Eli's still running on adrenaline, still wound tight from the firefight. The crash is coming, and when it does, he'll either process it or bury it.
"How are you doing?"
"Managing."
"That's what David always said. Right up until he wasn't."
Eli's jaw clenches. "I'm not David."
"No, you're not. You're trying to deal with this instead of pretending it doesn't affect you." I step closer. "But you're also running on combat adrenaline and eventually that's going to crash. When it does, you don't have to handle it alone."
He looks at me in the dim light, searching for the angle, the hidden cost of accepting help.
"Why?"
"Because I watched David destroy himself trying to be just the operative. Because you remind me of him but you're fighting not to become him. Because I care what happens to you." Thehonesty comes easier than expected. "And because I'm tired of pretending this pull between us doesn't exist."
He doesn't answer immediately. Still calculating, still weighing tactical discipline against need.
"This is dangerous," he says quietly.
"Good."
He sets the rifle aside carefully. Positions it where it's still within reach but not between us. Then he closes the distance, one hand cupping my face. His palm is rough, calloused from years in the wilderness. His thumb traces my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness.
"I don't know how to do this. Haven't been close to anyone in years. Don't know how to be gentle."
"I don't need gentle. I need you." I hold his gaze. "We'll figure it out."
His pupils dilate, jaw working. Dark and hungry before he wrestles it back. "I could hurt you."
"Not likely. I've delivered babies and set compound fractures. I know what my body can handle." I cup his face, make him look at me. "Stop thinking and touch me."
The blunt words break through his hesitation. He kisses me—desperate and hungry, hands holding my hips hard enough to leave marks. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
