She's probably weighing options, running scenarios. I've seen that look on operatives deciding how much intel to share, how much to withhold.
"Whatever it is," I say, keeping my voice steady, "hiding it won't make it go away."
Her eyes meet mine finally, searching. Testing.
I hold her gaze without flinching. We've come this far. I've pulled her from the snow, given her shelter, kept her safe. If that hasn't earned a fraction of trust, nothing will.
"You think I haven't heard that before?" Her voice is tight, controlled. "Trust is what gets people killed."
"So does silence."
Something shifts in her expression—not surrender, but a tactical decision.
Her hand moves to her jacket pocket, fingers hesitating on the edge before withdrawing a folded piece of paper. She doesn't immediately hand it over, holding it between us like a barrier.
"If I show you this," she says quietly, "there's no going back. For either of us."
I don't reach for it. Don't push.
Just wait, giving her the choice.
After what feels like minutes, she extends her hand, offering me the note with reluctance etched in every line of her body.
"Your choice," she says as I take it from her fingers.
The paper is crisp, high-quality. The kind used for official correspondence, not casual threats. I unfold it, my pulse calm despite the adrenaline already flooding my system.
"You're not hard to find. But you are running out of places to hide." —G
The heat in my chest turns violent. It's not just anger—it's something deeper, more primitive.
The instinct to protect twisted with the certainty of threat. The world narrows, sharpens. Everything unnecessary falls away.
I turn toward her, unable to keep the fire from flickering behind my eyes.
"Who is G?"
"Logan—"
"No more dodging." I cut her off, my voice dropping lower. "I need to knownow. If someone's coming, if someone already knows you're here, I need every name, every threat, every move. Otherwise?—"
My voice breaks off. The words stick in my throat, jagged and raw.
I pace to the window, fists clenched, jaw tight. The treeline beyond the glass reveals nothing but still shadows and silent snow.
But I know better. I've seen invisible threats materialize from quieter places.
"Otherwise, someone I care about is going to die."
The words hang in the air.
I didn't mean to say them. Didn't mean to admit that she's starting to be more than just a stranger I pulled from the snow.
In the reflection of the glass, I see her flinch—just barely. A micro-expression of pain, gone as quickly as it came.
"If I tell you…" she starts, her voice thin, fractured at the edges, "they'll come for you too."
"I'm already in it."
