They lingered for maybe an hour or two, trading stories, laughter, and camaraderie as the storm raged futilely against the thick log walls. Gradually, the adrenaline that had kept them upright began to ebb, overtaken by a heavy, overwhelming sleepiness.
Picasso gathered the team near the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows on their tired faces. “Alright,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’ve got from 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. to keep the fire going and an eye on Martha and Elias.” He gave a small smile. “I’m trusting you all to work out the shifts yourselves.”
The team exchanged surprised glances. Gabriella’s eyes narrowed. “You’re really giving up the schedule control?”
Picasso shrugged, a rare ease in his expression. “It’s not a mission anymore. It’s survival. You’re all seasoned, you can figure it out.”
Reef grinned. “Who wants the midnight shift? I’m thinking nobody.”
Falcon laughed. “Yeah, I vote 2 to 3 a.m. is the worst. I’ll take 4 a.m. if Grizzly’s cooking then.”
Grizzly smiled modestly. “Well, I’m happy to get up early and fix something warm. 4 a.m. works.”
Gabriella shook her head, amused. “This is seriously different from ‘Picasso’s way or the highway.’”
“Even chiefs need to loosen the reins sometimes,” Picasso replied, already stepping back toward the fire.
On the couch near the hearth, Martha and Elias snored softly, wrapped in blankets and warmed by the crackling flames.
The team settled into easy banter as they divvied up watches, settling comfortably into the night ahead.
Picasso extended a hand to Gabriella. She took it willingly, letting him help her to her feet. Her muscles ached deeply from the long, unforgiving day, a dull exhaustion that settled heavily into every fiber of her being.
“There’s a room upstairs,” he said quietly, voice meant only for her. “It has a bed.”
She nodded, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
Together they climbed the creaking wooden stairs in silence, the only sounds the faint groan of the floorboards beneath their boots and the steady drum of rain against the window. The room was small and tucked under the eaves, smelling faintly of cedar and fresh rain. A simple quilt covered the bed, and a single window looked out onto the dark canopy of the forest.
Picasso closed the door behind them and locked it. The clicking latch sounded like the rest of the world falling away.
He turned to her. For a long moment they just stood in the muted light, his gaze stripping away the layers of mud, exhaustion, and the insulated ‘coordinator’ facade.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I am now.” She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “You kept your promise.”
“I intend to keep it for a long time,” he replied, his voice rough but steady.
His hands found her waist and pulled her in. This kiss was not hurried like the fevered one they had shared back in Mexico. It was slow and deep, tasting of survival, relief, and something terrifyingly close to hope.
His fingers trembled slightly as they fumbled at the buttons of her tactical shirt. Usually deft hands now betrayed their intent. She helped him, peeling away the wet, heavy layers of mission gear until only bare skin and warmth remained.
They tumbled onto the bed, the rough quilt scratching her back, but his body was a firm, solid heat she clung to.
“Gabriella,” he whispered her name like a prayer.
Their movements held a desperate urgency, a wordless affirmation that they were still alive, still whole. His touch was possessive, memorizing the curve of her hip and the line of her spine. She tangled her legs around him, pulling him close, desperate to feel the steady thump of his heart against hers.
For a man forged from steel and protocols, he loved with fierce and unguarded intensity. He untangled her carefully, and in doing so, allowed himself to come undone.
Outside, the storm settled into a steady, rhythmic hum. The room cooled, but beneath the quilt, wrapped tightly together, they were warm.
Gabriella laid her head against his chest, listening to his breathing deepen and slow into sleep. His arm draped over her, a protective weight anchoring her to the bed, to him, to this fleeting moment.
Fingertip tracing the line of his tribal tattoo, she felt him stir softly, tightening his hold even in dreams, burying his face in her hair.
“No more different planets,” she whispered into the darkness.
