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The light had faded from the windows, so the lamps were the only illumination in the area. I sat on the cushions on the floor and ate my bowl of old soup. I looked up to stare at him.
His jaw was clean because he’d shaved, his hair was neat, and he was in sweatpants and a t-shirt…the first time he’d ever worn in regular clothes around me. He was dressed entirely in black, barefoot. He stared at me for a few seconds before he turned around and walked off again.
I went back to my soup.
He reappeared minutes later with firewood he’d retrieved from somewhere and carried it to the hearth. He set each log in place before he lit the fire with a bunched-up piece of paper. The flames were big instantly, bringing light and heat to the sitting room.
Then he went into the kitchen.
Now that we were outside the camp and he was in different clothes, I almost expected him to have a different personality, but he was the same brooding man who seemed perpetually unhappy.
He came back a moment later, a bowl of soup in his hand. To my surprise, he took a seat beside me on the floor, pushing away the cushions. His spoon moved through the bowl, and he served his mouth the warm liquid, getting chunks of potatoes and noodles.
It was quiet, our utensils tapping against the bowls.
I looked up and stared at him, seeing the chiseled jawline that I’d kissed, the full lips that had kissed me in places besides my mouth. His shoulders stretched out the cotton of his shirt, and the veins that ran down his arms were like webs under the skin. I’d only seem him outside his uniform once—when he was naked. But seeing him in sweatpants and under a roof different from a cabin made him look like a normal person.
Like we were normal people.
The fire cracked and popped in the hearth beside us, keeping us so warm it practically felt like summer. “What happened?”
He kept his eyes on his food. “Not sure. I was unconscious for a few days.”
I cringed and looked back into my bowl, feeling guilty for what I’d done.
“The search party gave up after a couple days. They think you may have crossed the river, but if you did, you got wet, and if you got wet, you wouldn’t survive for more than an hour.”
That was true. I almost didn’t survive. “Did they suspect you?”
“No. But they did give me shit about it, for covering your ass when you stabbed me in the back.”
It offended me, because nothing could be further from the truth. I was loyal to him. The only reason I’d struck him was because he forced me to.
“They said they hope I learned my lesson.”
“Have you ever helped another prisoner escape?”
He stilled at the question, his spoon going stationary in the bowl. Then he lifted his gaze to look at me, his eyebrows slightly raised in subtle perplexity. He never answered, like it was a stupid question. Then he returned to eating, dismissing my question like I hadn’t asked it.
“Then why me?”
He kept his eyes down on his food. “Does it matter?”
“You saved my life. It does matter.”
He finished the bowl until it was empty. He set it aside, farther away on the rug. Then he lifted his knees and rested his elbows on top, his gaze on the fire. His eyes were the same color as the firewood, the pieces that didn’t burn with red embers. “You deserved better.”
“Why didn’t the others deserve better?”
He shrugged. “Because they don’t act like it. They accepted their fate. From the first day you arrived there, you never did. You were always out of place. You were always the prisoner we talked about. Once you told me how you got there, it made me realize you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place.” His eyes stayed on the flames, as if he were reliving every single moment in his mind.
“The other women don’t deserve to be there either. They keep their heads down because they’re smart. It’s not because they’re weak,” I thought of Bethany, who plotted with the girls to get me food. “They’re brave in ways the guards don’t notice. My life isn’t more valuable than theirs. Every single person there deserves to live their life freely.”
He turned his head to regard me. “Let’s get something straight. There’s nothing you can say to make me feel sympathetic to the rest of the women in that camp. Even if they were liberated, a new batch would arrive to replace them. That camp has been there for ten years, and it’ll be around for decades to come. I’m a hero in your story, but I’m still the villain in theirs.” He turned back to the fire, his eyes shifting slightly as he watched the flames dance, following their movements until they popped. But he didn’t flinch at the sound. “Be grateful that I helped you. But don’t expect more from me.”
