"Liar." There's no accusation in it, just gentle certainty.
I don't respond. What am I supposed to say?
"I get them too," she offers. "Not as often anymore, but I used to. After my dad left, or, no, he didn't leave leave, he's still in town, but after my parents divorced when I was sixteen. I'd dream about it, about the fighting before, about watching him pack his things. Stupid things to have nightmares about, probably, but—"
"They're not stupid." The words come out before I can stop them. "Trauma is trauma. Doesn't matter if someone else thinks it's valid."
"Is that what yours are? Trauma?"
Fuck. Walked right into that one.
"Yeah," I admit. "Old trauma. Nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm not worried. Just... curious. About you."
"Why?"
She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow. In the dim light, her eyes are more gold than green. "Because you're interesting. Because you live alone on a mountain and make knives and saved my life. Because you're clearly running from something, and I recognize that look. The one that says 'if I stop moving, the past will catch up.'"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She's not confrontational about it, just matter-of-fact. "I see it in how you live. Nothing personal in this cabin except what's necessary. No photos, no mementos, no connection to anything or anyone. That's not choosing solitude. That's hiding."
"You should go back to sleep," I say.
"Are you sleeping?"
"No."
"Then why should I?" She settles back down but doesn't close her eyes. "Tell me something. Anything. I'm not tired anymore."
"That's not how this works. I don't do... sharing."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason you're getting."
She's quiet again, but I can practically hear her thinking. Then: "Were you military?"
My whole body goes rigid. "What makes you think that?"
"The way you move. The scars. How you talk sometimes, like you're giving orders you don't even realize you're giving. Andyou said you've treated hypothermia before. That's not normal civilian knowledge."
She's too observant. Too smart. This is dangerous. But the mate bond is pulling at me, urging truth, demanding I share with her like mates are supposed to share.
"Yeah," I finally say. "I was military. Long time ago."
"What branch?"
"Army. Special operations."
"That's impressive."
"It was a long time ago," I repeat.
