Nowhere to run.
Just the two of them.
And no way back to before.
23
Pav’s handwas in her hair. Her fingers were against his jaw. As if neither of them were ready to stop.
The northern lights faded above them in a slow, silent collapse.
His system fought to come back online. Assessment. Protocol. Next steps. The operational framework that had kept him alive for years reached for an anchor, but there was nothing there.
She’d broken something.
The compartments. Distance. Control.
Gone.
He could still taste her.
Fuck.
Thatwas a problem.
He dropped his hand from her hair and stepped back, allowing the cold air to rush into the space between them. The sensation was familiar and reliable. Cold had protocols. He could work with cold.
“We should get inside.” His voice sounded almost normal. But Harper missed nothing and that was becoming dangerous.
Her face crumpled. A small, private collapse she tried to hide by dropping her gaze, followed by a sharp intake of breath pulled through her teeth. With a tiny nod, she turned toward the door.
His good hand curled into a fist at his side. He was a bastard, and he knew exactly why. He gritted his teeth and followed her in.
The fire was low in the stove, the embers pulsing a deep orange through the grate. He crossed to it and fed in two lengths of broken shelving with a precision the task didn’t require. He needed occupation, something, anything that wasn’t crossing the room and pulling her back against him and finishing what the northern lights had started.
The weight of her attention pressed between his shoulder blades. But he didn’t look at her. Looking at her was how this had started. One look and years of discipline had gone with it.
He cleared his throat, his voice coming from the other side of the wall he was rebuilding as fast as he could lay the bricks. “You should sleep. We leave at first light.”
She huffed a slow breath, choosing. The push or the retreat. She chose silence.
He was relieved, but also disappointed.
She lay down on the tarp near the warmth and pulled the survival blanket over herself. “Pav.”
He adjusted the stove's airflow as the intensity of her gaze burned his back. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the lights.”
He stared at the blackened metal of the stove. “Get some sleep.”
Quiet. The rustle of the blanket as she settled. The fire ticking in the grate. Then her breathing, slowing by degrees, the rhythm lengthening and deepening as exhaustion dragged her under.
Now he moved and sat with his back against the wall, rifle across his knees. Eyes on the door.
The package. That’s what she was.
He let the thought sit as he stared at the lick of the flames.
