The cabin was dark except for a faint spill of moonlight through the small window. My eyes adjusted instantly.
She was on the cot, tangled in the blanket, her body thrashing as if trying to break invisible chains. Her head jerked side to side, and her hands clutched at the air like she was trying to stop someone—protect someone.
"No, don't—don't touch her! Let her go! She's just a kid—please!" she cried out.
Her voice cracked. Broke. Frantic.
I stood there, frozen for half a second.
Not because I didn't know what to do—but because I'd seen this kind of terror before.
In soldiers.
In children dragged out of raids.
In women who survived things they couldn't put into words.
But it hits different when it's not supposed to be here.
Here in my woods.
She cried out again, the words slurring this time. "Don't hurt her… don't!"
Who?
Sister?
Friend?
Someone she couldn't save?
The way she said it, I couldn't tell. But whoever the girl was, she meant everything to her.
And she couldn't protect her.
That kind of guilt doesn't fade. It brands the soul.
Her fists clenched the blanket as if trying to fight off ghosts. Her breathing was ragged. Her forehead wet with sweat.
I slowly stepped closer.
I didn't touch her. Not yet. Didn't want to startle her further. She wasn't awake. This was deep-rooted. A scar turned into a nightmare.
She whimpered again, softer this time. "Don't take her…"
Then, carefully, I crouched beside the cot.
And for reasons I didn't understand, I reached out—slowly—and rested my hand gently against her head. Just above her tangled hairline. Light enough not to wake her. Firm enough to ground her.
Her breathing hitched.
Then slowed.
The tension in her face softened. Her fists loosened. Her lips parted, and a quiet sigh slipped out—like a weight dropped from her chest.
She didn't wake.
But the storm passed.
I kept my hand there a moment longer, watching her. Listening to the silence settle back into her bones.
"Her breath steadied under my palm, but the tears clinging to her lashes weren't just from sleep. They were old. Salt-rusted. The kind that came from wounds I recognized too well.
I pulled my hand back like she'd burned me.
She shifted, curling inward—not weak, but wounded. A animal pressing against an unseen bruise. I knew that move. Had done it myself in hospital beds and safehouses.
And that scared me more than her scream."
Whatever she'd seen… whoever she'd tried to save… it wasn't over.
Not for her.
And not for me either, apparently.
Because here I was—kneeling beside a stranger, calming her through a nightmare, instead of walking away like I always do.
My fingers brushed back a piece of damp hair from her cheek.
She looked younger like this. Not weak. Just worn.
What the hell are you running from?
And why… does part of me already want to find out?
The cabin was still.
Her breathing had steadied.
I didn't plan to stay.
I was supposed to check on her, calm the storm, and leave. Return to the shadows. Let her sleep in peace while I returned to mine.
But my knees hadn't moved.
And something in me quiet and irrational didn't want to leave her alone in that moment.
Not like that.
So I stayed.
I leaned my back against the wall beside her cot and sat down. The wooden floor was cold through my shirt. My boots were still laced. My hand had returned to my lap. But my eyes... they were fixed on her face.
Soft.
Not weak never weak but calm.
The kind of calm people only get when they feel… safe.
Funny.
She didn't know who I was.
And still, she trusted me enough to fall asleep here.
I studied the outline of her features in the dim moonlight.
Her lashes.
Her cheekbones.
The faintest scar near her right temple—half-healed, recent.
What happened to you?
Who broke you?
I tilted my head back against the wall. Let my eyes close just for a second.
Just for a breath.
I'll leave in a minute.
I always do.
—
I woke up to silence.
Sunlight streamed through the window, soft and golden. The kind that doesn't burn, just warms.
I blinked at the ceiling.
Wait.
What?
I sat up too fast.
Heart racing. Hands flexing.
I looked around—alert. A lifetime of training kicked in before the realization did.
I… slept?
My eyes narrowed.
I slept.
Real sleep.
Not the kind where your body rests but your mind paces like a caged animal.
Not the half-dreams filled with blood, boardrooms, and betrayal.
Not the two-hour crashes that end with cold sweats and clenched fists.
This… was different.
Still.
Steady.
Restful.
And it hit me all at once.
I hadn't slept in days.
Not even on my own bedroll outside. Not in my high-rise suite in the city. Not on planes or in bunkers or hidden bases with my most trusted men watching every door.
But here, sitting beside her…
It just happened.
No panic.
No overthinking.
Just quiet.
My brows furrowed as I stared at the wooden ceiling.
Why?
Why her?
What was it about this girl—a complete stranger—that made the war in my mind stop?
What made my body finally… let go?
I didn't have the answer.
And maybe, part of me didn't want one yet.
Some questions only cause more damage when you chase them too early.
So instead, I exhaled slowly.
Glanced at her still-sleeping form, the blanket rising and falling gently with each breath.
And without fully realizing it, I let the corner of my mouth lift—just slightly.
The answer wouldn't come. Not yet.
Dawn light crept deeper into the cabin, painting the floorboards in pale gold. I disentangled myself from the weight of the night from the unfamiliar calm she'd dragged out of me and stood. My coat was still draped over the chair where I'd left it. I tugged it on, my fingers lingering on the collar.
Coffee. I needed coffee. Or whiskey. Something to scrape the fog of sleep from my skull.
I stepped outside."
The morning was sharp. Crisp air bit at the edges of my breath as I crossed the porch and stepped off the cabin's front steps. The trees were still. Watching. The sky overhead barely tinted with fire.
I didn't go far.
Just to the side shed—where the cold didn't touch the locked steel case tucked behind the wood stack. I bent down, unlocked it with practiced hands, and pulled out the flask I kept for moments like this. Not for celebration. Not for drowning.
Just… to steady the static.
The metal was cold against my palm. I unscrewed the cap, leaned back against the porch post, and let the burn slide down my throat.
One sip.
Two.
It was rough. Aged. Quietly expensive.
The kind of thing you don't drink with friends. You drink in silence. Alone. When the past won't shut up.
I stood there for another breath, eyes on the horizon, the forest still stretching outward like a secret I hadn't cracked yet. She was in there, somewhere. In this place. In my stillness.
And something about that made the whiskey feel heavier.
I capped the flask and slipped it back into its place.
Then I turned and stepped back inside. The door creaked softly on its hinges as I pushed into the warmth of the cabin again. The faint scent of ash and damp cotton lingered in the air.
Time to reset.
I moved toward the kitchen—footsteps quiet, calculated. The stove still held last night's heat. A few embers glowed, faint but stubborn.
I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed a log, and stoked the fire back to life.
I pulled out two eggs. Broke them into a bowl. Whisked them with a pinch of salt, pepper, and a touch of crushed red pepper. Sliced some onions and tomatoes, quick and clean. Tossed them into the pan before the oil could hiss too loudly.
Omelet and pan-toasted bread.
Simple. Efficient. My favorite.
I didn't think twice before grabbing another two eggs and making a second one—same ingredients. Same toast. A mirror plate.
I didn't know what she liked. I didn't ask.
But something told me this wasn't a bad guess.
Something else told me I shouldn't care.
Yet here I was—making her the same thing I made for myself.
Why?
I didn't have an answer. So I avoided the question by focusing on the kettle.
I filled it halfway and set it on the back burner. My own mug was already out, the dull green enamel chipped at the rim. Inside, a tea bag sat ready—black American-style. Strong. No sugar.
But my eyes drifted to the shelf above the sink.
There it was.
The small tin of Turkish tea I'd picked up months ago out of habit during a quiet city errand. I never drank it. Didn't particularly like the way it brewed. But it was high quality. Strong. Clean.