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If she hadn’t moved when she did, if I had been a second slower, if that blade had slipped deeper⁠—

A twig cracks behind me.

I turn before the sound finishes, hatchet lifting, body already between the noise and camp.

“Leon.”

I lower the hatchet.

Firelight glows behind me, spilling over her face and catching in the loose strands of her hair. Her jacket is zipped against the cold, her rifle strap crosses her chest, and the little cut at her throat sits red against her skin.

Then she turns her head slightly.

Gold catches the light.

Small hoops. Tiny wings.

My lungs forget what they were made for.

She wore them.

Clair brushes her hair behind her ear, fingers grazing one earring. “I wanted to find you.”

I nod once, because anything else means crossing the space between us and proving I have no self-control at all.

A few feet separate us.

Not enough.

Too much.

I don’t move. Don’t trust what happens if I do. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, or nerves, or the firelight still clinging to her skin. Maybe all three. Her hands flex at her sides, holding herself in place.

“I have some things I need to say,” she continues, lifting her chin. “And I need you to not interrupt me.”

My brow arches before I can stop it.

She catches it immediately and groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay, ignore that. That was not well thought out.”

A breath leaves me, silent and close to a laugh.

She drops her hand and looks back at me.

This time, she doesn’t look away.

No ducking behind sarcasm. No quick retreat. No pretending the ground between us isn’t shaking.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

I go still and stay where I am, even while every instinct yells at me to rush toward her.

Go to her.

Touch her.

She draws in one steady breath and looks at the page.

“ ‘My Leon.’ ”