Picasso tightened his grip, lips twitching with a smile. “It won’t be easy.”
“Nothing worth fighting for ever is.” Gabriella met his gaze, her eyes steady and fiercely alive even in the dim firelight. She spoke quietly, “I get it. You can’t tell me everything; there are things that have to stay locked down. I understand that. I don’t expect the full picture.”
She lifted her face then, courage shining like a beacon. “But promise me one thing: no more ‘Can’t. Duty.’ When you say those words, I want you to tell me why. I’ll listen, whatever it is. And I’ll do my best not to call you from places where the signal drops.”
Her words pierced through the walls he’d built around himself, each one a fragile bridge reaching out to him. He let out a slow breath, a small flame of hope flickering in the depths he thought long extinguished.
“Promise,” he said, the word soft but resolute, carrying the weight of everything they’d both been afraid to admit.
Before the fire’s glow dimmed, he brushed a soft kiss across her lips, light, tentative, full of everything they hadn’t yet said aloud.
Gabriella smiled against him, the exhaustion and fear fading, just for a moment, in the quiet warmth between them.
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. Her damp hair smelled of pine and rain, and something uniquely Gabriella. He hadn’t felt this grounded, this utterly there, since the tent in Mexico.
“I promise,” he whispered into her hair, a vow not just to her, but to himself. “No more different planets. Just us. Wherever the storm takes us.”
THIRTY-THREE
GABRIELLA
The smell was the first thing that convinced Gabriella’s brain they weren’t out in the mud anymore. It wasn’t the metallic tang of rain or the rot of the forest floor; it was the rich, savory scent of beef stew and the yeasty, buttery aroma of baking biscuits.
She sat huddled on the stone hearth of the massive fireplace, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, letting the radiant heat seep into her bones. The lodge, abandoned only hours ago, now felt impossibly alive. Its rough-hewn logs warmed the cool air and offered shelter from the unforgiving storm outside.
“Alright, chow line starts here,” Grizzly announced, wielding a ladle like a scepter. He stood over a cast-iron pot hung over the fire, looking less like a lethal operator and more like a very large, very dangerous grandmother. “And before anyone asks, yes, the biscuits are from scratch. I found flour and baking powder in the pantry. Don’t insult me.”
“From scratch?” Reef asked, holding out a tin camping bowl. “You mean you didn’t just smash two MRE crackers together and call it a day?”
“Watch it, surfer boy,” Grizzly grunted, dropping a heavy scoop of stew into Reef’s bowl. “Or you get the burnt ones.”
Laughter rippled through the room, warm and genuine. It washed over Gabriella, easing the tight knot of tension that had settled between her shoulder blades for three days.
They were a strange, motley family huddled against the dark. The elderly couple they had rescued, Elias and Martha, sat together on the largest couch, wrapped in thermal blankets. They looked frail, their faces etched with exhaustion and the ordeal they had endured, but color was slowly returning to their cheeks.
“Thank you, son,” Martha said, her voice shaky but filled with gratitude as Grizzly handed her a bowl with surprising tenderness for a man his size. “It smells wonderful.”
“Eat up, ma’am,” Grizzly said softly. “It will put the fire back in you.”
Gabriella’s gaze drifted to Picasso. He stood near the window, peering out into the rain as it hammered the glass, but at the sound of the laughter, he turned away from the storm. He walked over to the fire and accepted a bowl from Grizzly with a subtle nod. He did not settle into a chair; instead, he lowered himself onto the floor next to the hearth, his back pressing against the warm stone just beside her leg.
The simple closeness sent a surprising jolt up her spine. He was not monitoring the perimeter or fiddling with his comms. He was here, present.
“Eat,” he murmured, nudging her knee with his shoulder.
She took a tentative bite. The stew was humble: canned beans, rehydrated beef, and spices Grizzly must have scavenged from the cupboards, but it tasted like a feast: savory and rich, with warmth that radiated through to her core.
“So,” Falcon started, tearing into a biscuit, “we gonna talk about how Hurricane slipped in the mud back at the creek? I give it a solid 4.5 on the dismount.”
“It was a tactical slide,” Hurricane defended, unbothered and calm while spooning stew into his mouth. “I was checking the soil stability.”
“With your face?” Reef snorted, eliciting a burst of laughter.
The room erupted again, even Elias chuckling with a dry, raspy sound. “Reminds me of my army days,” the old man said. “We spent more time eating mud than walking on it.”
The operators immediately shifted their attention to him, respectful and engaged, eager to learn about his past service. Gabriella took in the scene. These men, capable of breaching walls and sending targets tumbling from a mile out, were now gentle companions to two terrified old souls.
Picasso leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closing briefly. She noticed the deep lines of fatigue etched into his face and the gray shadows beneath his eyes. He was carrying the weight of everyone in this room. But for tonight, that burden seemed to lift, even if only for a moment.
