My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind refuses to shut down. The chase through the mountains after Cooper's cousin had been physically demanding, but it's not the exertion keeping me awake.
It's her. Down the hall. In my house. Under my protection but untouchable.
I pull on sweatpants and pad silently to the kitchen for water. The cabin is quiet except for the familiar creaks and groans ofa house settling. As I pass Riley's closed door, I pause, listening for her breathing. The heavy silence suggests she's finally asleep, and relief mingles with disappointment.
In the kitchen, moonlight streams through the windows, turning everything silver. I grab a glass from the cabinet and turn to the sink, then freeze.
A figure stands on my back porch, silhouetted against the night sky.
My body reacts before my mind can process, muscles tensing, senses sharpening, hand reaching automatically for the weapon that isn't there. Old combat instincts never fully die; they just hibernate until needed.
Then the figure shifts, and I recognize Riley's slender form. She's wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the mountains, seemingly unaware of my presence.
I debate returning to my room, leaving her to her solitude. But concern overrides caution. It's near freezing outside, and she's alone in the dark after a day of threats and confrontations.
I quietly unlock the back door and step onto the porch, making my footsteps deliberate enough that I don't startle her.
She turns at the sound, moonlight catching in her eyes. "Couldn't sleep either?"
"No." I keep my distance, leaning against the railing opposite her. "You'll catch your death out here."
"Worth it for this view." She gestures toward the mountains, silhouetted against a star-filled sky. "I'd forgotten how bright the stars are up here. You can't see them like this in town."
I follow her gaze upward. The Milky Way stretches across the sky, a river of light above the dark peaks. It's a view I take for granted most nights, but seeing it through her eyes makes it new again.
"Dad and I used to stargaze," she says softly. "On summer nights, he'd drag the old telescope onto the roof and show me the constellations."
"I remember." I'd helped Bill set up that telescope, had even joined them a few times. "He knew them all."
"Not really." A smile touches her lips. "He made up half of them. It took me years to realize 'The Great Moose' wasn't an official constellation."
The memory draws a chuckle from me. "Sounds like Bill."
We fall silent, the vast sky above binding us in shared remembrance. For the first time all day, the tension between us eases, replaced by something gentler. Sadder.
"I miss him so much," Riley whispers, voice catching. "Some days it hits harder than others."
Without thinking, I move closer, drawn by the pain in her voice. "I know."
"Do you think it ever gets easier?"
The question is weighted with grief. I want to lie, to offer the comfort of false hope, but I respect her too much for that.
"It changes," I say finally. "The sharp edges dull. You learn to live around the hole. But no, it doesn't get easier. Not really."
She nods, accepting this truth without resentment. "That's what I figured."
"Your father was the best man I ever knew," I add quietly. "Not perfect. But the best where it counted."
"He thought the same about you." Riley's eyes find mine in the darkness. "You were brothers in every way that mattered."
The words touch something raw inside me. Bill and I had been more than friends, more than comrades. We'd saved each other in ways that went beyond the physical. After my own father abandoned our family, Bill became the brother I needed, the one who understood the darkness I carried, who never judged the man I became.
"We were." My voice roughens with emotion I rarely allow myself to show.
Riley shifts, the blanket slipping slightly to reveal a thin t-shirt beneath. A shiver runs through her, visible even in the moonlight.
"Come inside," I say, not a request but not quite an order. "You're freezing."
