Chapter 12
Saoirse
I woke to the sound of birdsong threading through canvas and the quiet warmth of breath that wasn’t mine.
For a disoriented half-second, I didn’t remember where I was.
The air inside the tent smelled like damp nylon and campfire smoke, and something woodsy and faintly citrus beneath that—Finn’s soap, probably.
I shifted slightly, the ache of yesterday’s miles flaring in my calves, and that’s when I registered the shape between us.
Ajax.
Flat on his side, legs twitching in some half-remembered dream, he took up the center of the tent like he owned the place. Finn and I had curled around him in our sleep like two parentheses. I had maybe a foot of space between myself and the tent wall. Less, if I wanted to breathe fully.
Ajax snorted, rolled onto his other side, and in doing so nudged Finn’s arm.
Finn stirred with a low grunt, then froze. I could feel the awareness wake in him like a tide. His breathing changed—slow, then sharp, and then a little too careful.
“Morning.” His voice was still graveled from sleep.
I cleared my throat, unsure why the sound of it made me feel like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t. “Morning.”
Silence stretched. I heard the faint chirr of insects outside. The air was cool, but not unpleasant, carrying that sharp-edged smell of moss and turned earth.
Finn exhaled. “Guess ultralight is code for awkward proximity .”
I shot a look toward the lump of fur between us. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I did. Yesterday. When you asked where your tent was.”
“That’s not the same as saying, ‘By the way, we’ll be sleeping like sardines.’”
He grinned sleepily, not bothering to open his eyes. “Could’ve said you snore.”
“I don’t.”
He cracked one eye open. “You twitch.”
“I was dreaming.”
He smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. “Hope it was a good one.”
I didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, I sat up, nudging Ajax’s back end with my hip as I untangled from the sleeping bag. The dog opened one eye, seemed to weigh the cost of moving, and promptly decided against it.
Outside the tent, the morning was silver and soft, low mist coiling between the tree trunks like something out of an old storybook.
Behind me, I heard Finn zip open the tent flap and emerge into the chill, yawning wide enough to scare off birds.
He glanced at the sky, then reached into his pack for the stove and coffee kit.
I found my way into the trees, locating a private spot for morning necessities.
Within minutes, I was back, and the rich scent of brewing coffee filled the clearing.
He handed me the first cup. I didn’t miss the way he slipped it into my hands without flourish or commentary.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“No problem.”
We drank in silence. Ajax finally heaved himself up, stretched with a groan, and shook out his coat in a cascade of dust.
Finn crouched to check the dog’s gear before slipping it on him, inspecting each strap and pouch with quiet focus. He didn’t coo or baby-talk, just moved with a kind of practiced, unshowy care.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. Still barefoot, hair rumpled, hands sure.
Annoyingly competent. And—fine—attractive in a rugged, casually dangerous sort of way.
I sipped my coffee, then said, “So… is it that you don’t like cats?”
His hands stilled on Ajax’s harness. “What?”
“The kitten,” I said. “From last year. The one you found during renovations at the office.”
He blinked. “What about it?”
“You were very quick to disavow yourself of any responsibility of it. I wondered if you didn’t like cats.”
A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement, maybe, but something darker beneath it. “It’s not the cat. I like cats fine.”
“Then why the ‘not my problem’ attitude?”
He straightened and gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve lost people. Men under my command. Friends. Squadmates. I dinna do well with responsibility that has a heartbeat.”
I raised a brow. “And Ajax?”
He didn’t look at me when he answered. “No man left behind. No dog either.”
The words were quiet, but they carried weight. More than I expected. Like it was a motto—or a promise.
Something in his tone stopped me from pushing further. For now.
We finished breaking camp. There was no need to coordinate; we moved in an odd, synchronized rhythm, like two dancers performing a routine they hadn’t rehearsed but somehow knew anyway. It was… disconcerting to feel connected to him like this.
As we double-checked the site and shouldered our packs, Finn glanced toward me, brow slightly raised. “You ready?”
I tightened my straps. “Let’s go find my friend.”
We moved through the forest in near silence, Ajax ranging ahead in wide loops, nose low, body loose and efficient. His every step was measured, purposeful—a living metronome set to the scent trail.
I stayed behind Finn, letting him lead. Not because I couldn’t have managed the route myself, but because it was…
enlightening. He didn’t need dramatic gestures or barks of command.
The two managed to communicate through a series of quiet murmurs, occasional hand signals, and a deep, mutual trust I envied.
Did Finn realize how much he’d already bonded with Ajax? I didn’t think he did.
At one point, he knelt to check a patch of disturbed moss. Ajax waited, muscles taut but still. Finn glanced at a bend in a broken fern stalk, then up at the canopy.
“No new signs.” He straightened. “But the scent’s still holding. Wind hasn’t shifted.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by all of it. I knew enough to let him work. My job was to keep up and keep alert—and to try not to get lost in my own thoughts, which wasn’t going especially well.
For hours, the path rose and fell beneath our boots, knotted with roots and stitched with leaf-littered gullies. Ajax tracked with almost eerie consistency. Occasionally he’d pause, look back at Finn as if to say you seeing this? then move on.
And then, somewhere past midday, I broke the silence.
“You’re good at this.”
Finn shot me a quick look over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” I said. “You and Ajax. It’s like watching a search-and-rescue documentary with better biceps.”
That got a faint laugh out of him, which he mostly smothered with a hand. “High praise.”
I shrugged, eyes on the terrain. “So your friend Charlie trained him?”
“Yeah.” His tone changed so subtly I almost missed it. The humor drained out, leaving something quieter. “They were paired not long after Kandahar. Served together for years.”
I glanced over, waiting.
After a moment, he went on. “Charlie was the one who said it.” His gaze stayed fixed on the trail ahead. “‘No man left behind. No dog either.’ Used to spout it off with this daft grin, like it was a joke.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No.” Finn’s voice dipped, rougher now. “It wasn’t.”
He slowed slightly, hand falling to Ajax’s back as the dog paused to sniff the base of a pine. Finn’s fingers moved in a small, unconscious pattern—comfort more than correction.
“When Charlie died, he left Ajax to me,” he said finally. “Because apparently I was the only one he trusted not to treat him like broken equipment.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing, only kept walking beside him.
After a minute, he forced a chuckle. “Christ. Sorry. That got bleak fast.”
“Don’t apologize.” My voice was quieter than I meant it to be. “You’re allowed to miss him.”
He looked at me then—really looked. And for a moment, I saw all of it. Not only the smooth charm or the competence, but the raw edge beneath. The weight he carried and the way he’d learned to carry it with a smile, so no one would ask too many questions.
I recognized that look. I’d seen it in the mirror more times than I cared to count.
“Grief’s a weird thing.” I said it mostly to the trees. “Sometimes it feels like a shadow. Other times, like someone’s cracked your ribs open and is pressing on your heart just to see if it still hurts.”
He blinked. Then nodded.
“I like to think it means we loved them properly,” I added, softer.
For a while, we simply walked.
Eventually, Finn cleared his throat. “So… still think I’m just a charming pain in your arse?”
“Yes.” I maintained my straight face. “But now I think you’re a complicated charming pain in my arse.”
He grinned. “I’ll take it.”
And for the first time since we’d set foot on this trail, it felt less like we were two strangers thrown together and more like we were becoming something else entirely.