"Survivors usually are."
"You would know."
I glance at her. She's not talking about Traci anymore.
"Get some rest," I tell her. "When they come back, it's going to be a long fight."
"What about you?"
"I'll rest when the perimeter's secure."
She doesn't argue. Just nods and goes back to Traci, leaving me to continue preparations.
The compound settles into routine. Finn extends the sensor perimeter. Cara continues database searches. Helena keeps Traci company. I run another perimeter check, verify defensive positions, mentally rehearse response protocols for different assault scenarios.
Darkness falls. The compound lights dim to tactical minimum. Everyone settles into watch rotation except me. I'm too wired to sleep, too aware that somewhere out there, Simon Graves is mobilizing contractors for an assault designed to eliminate everyone who threatens his empire.
Helena finds me on the porch around midnight. Brings coffee without comment, stands beside me looking out at the dark perimeter. Our shoulders almost touch.
"You should sleep," she says.
"So should you."
"I did. Some." She takes a drink of coffee. "Enough to function tomorrow."
We stand in silence. A comfortable quiet that doesn't need filling with unnecessary words. The kind of silence that only works between people who understand each other without explanation.
"Last night," she says eventually, and her voice carries something that makes my pulse quicken despite the tactical situation.
"Was last night." I keep my eyes on the perimeter, tracking shadows that aren't there. "We're both adults. We knew what we were doing."
"I'm not asking for definitions or complications." She shifts closer, and now our shoulders touch. A small contact, barely there, but it grounds something in me that's been wound too tight since I woke up alone. "I'm saying it was good. And when this is over, when Graves is dealt with and Traci's safe, I wouldn't mind it happening again."
Straightforward. No games, no manipulation, no expectations beyond honest physical connection between two people who understand what they're getting into. Who saw each other clearly last night—the darkness and the need and the control that barely holds—and didn't flinch.
"I wouldn't mind that either," I admit.
"Good." She finishes her coffee, and when she turns to look at me, there's want in her expression that has nothing to do with tactical preparations or defensive planning. "Now come inside and get some sleep. You're no use to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion when the shooting starts."
She's not wrong.
But when she turns to head inside, I catch her wrist. I pull her back. Near enough that there's barely any space between us.Near enough to feel her breath catch, see her pupils dilate in the dim light.
"Helena."
"Eli."
I could let her go. I could maintain professional distance until the threat's handled and we can afford distraction. I could keep my attention on defensive preparations instead of the way she's looking at me right now.
I could.
I don't.
I kiss her. Hard, demanding, making intentions clear without wasting time on words. And she meets me where I am, hands fisting in my tactical vest, body pressing against mine with the same direct honesty she brings to everything else.
When I pull back, we're both breathing harder.
"The next few days could get interesting," I say.
