I know that posture. I've lived it. It’s a reflex I can’t shake, no matter how many walls I’ve built around myself.
The burner phone sits dismantled on my workbench, battery removed and SIM card stored separately inside a Faraday pouch designed to block all signals.
Old habits from my SEAL days. Never assume technology is on your side.
My rifle leans against the wall within arm's reach as I brew coffee, strong and black. My mind catalogs threats and contingencies with the quiet precision of muscle memory:
Cabin perimeter: clear.
Road access: one entry point, easily monitored.
Nearest neighbor: three miles east.
Armed response time from The Forge: seven minutes.
Through the kitchen window, I watch dawn crawl across the pines.
The woods look peaceful, pristine. Untouched.
But I know better. Someone tracked her here. Someone with tactical training and specialized equipment. The kind of someone who doesn't show up in small-town Montana without a reason.
A reason currently passed out on my bed.
I find her silhouetted in my bedroom doorway, chestnut hair falling loose around her shoulders, still damp from the shower.
She's changed into the spare clothes I left out—my old flannel drowning her frame, sleeves rolled three times at the wrists.
The thermal base layer peeks through at her neck, and she's cinched the borrowed tactical pants with what looks like a shoelace fashioned into a belt.
There’s something about seeing her in my clothes that stirs a possessive instinct I didn’t realize I had.
"Coffee?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
She hesitates, then nods once. I pour a second mug and slide it across the counter without stepping into her space.
Our fingers almost touch as she takes it, and the brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me.
She brings it to her lips without looking away from me.
Watching her, I can’t help but notice the way the steam curls around her face, accentuating her features in the morning light.
"The flannel's on the chair," I say, nodding toward the shirt I left out for her. "Bathroom's stocked with whatever you might need."
She glances at the shirt, then back at me.
Measuring.
Calculating.
She doesn't say thank you, but she doesn't need to. The fact that she's still here, that she didn't try to bolt in the night, tells me more than words could.
I nod toward the chair again. “Base layers and wool socks are under the flannel. Pants might be a little big, but they’ll hold heat.” Her gaze flicks down, catching the neat stack I laid out hours ago.
“There’s a jacket by the door. Beanie and gloves too.” I pause. “Wind cuts harder than it looks.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers curl tighter around the mug. Eyes sharper now.
Awake.
