Nothing moves.
The only light comes from the dying embers visible through my front window.
"Going to have to move fast," I warn her. "Hold tight."
I break from cover, sprinting across the snow-covered yard, her weight solid against my chest.
Every instinct screams that we're being watched, crosshairs following our movement.
But no shot comes. The silence only confirms what I already suspect—whoever was out there wasn't trying to kill her tonight.
I kick the front door open, cross the threshold in three strides, then kick it closed behind us.
I set her down long enough to lock it, then quickly move through the cabin, securing windows, closing blinds, resetting the perimeter alarms I disabled when I left to track her.
When I turn back, she's still standing where I left her, swaying slightly on unsteady legs, face pale, lips tinged with blue.
She looks like she might collapse again at any moment, but something stubborn in her posture refuses to surrender to weakness.
"Bathroom," I say, gesturing down the hall. "Hot shower. Now."
"My phone," she says again, more insistent this time.
She's fixated on it, which means it matters. Which means I need to check it.
"Fine," I say, approaching her slowly. "Where is it?"
Her right hand moves protectively to her messenger bag. She seems torn between her desperate need for warmth and her unwillingness to surrender whatever's in that bag.
Trust issues. I recognize those too.
But even as she stands there, swaying slightly, I can’t help but notice the curve of her lips, the fierce light in her eyes despite everything.
It’s disarming, and I have to force myself to stay on task.
"Just make sure it's not compromised," I explain, keeping my voice low and steady. The way you'd talk to a wounded animal. "That sniper didn't just stumble across you by accident."
Her eyes flash with understanding, then alarm. She hadn't considered that possibility.
The realization seems to break through her defenses. She reaches into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulls out a cheap burner phone—the kind you'd buy with cash at a gas station.
I take it from her cold hand, our fingers brushing briefly. She looks like she might argue, then sways dangerously, grabbing the wall for support.
I lift her up, her weight slight against my chest. Her head lolls against my shoulder, dark hair spilling across my arm like ink. The fever burns through her clothes, seeping into my skin.
My bedroom door creaks as I nudge it open with my boot. The bed lies unmade—I never saw the point of hospital corners when sleep comes in fragments anyway.
I lay her down carefully, trying not to notice how the moonlight catches her face. How it softens the sharp edges of exhaustion around her eyes. How her lips part slightly with each shallow breath.
Too close.
My hands linger a moment too long on her shoulders. I step back, forcing distance between us.
Distance is safe. Distance keeps people alive.
The burner phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, pressing the power button.
The screen flickers to life, casting a blue glow across my palms.
