8. Cara
Cara
By midnight the women's house looks less like a refuge and more like the aftermath of a very strange sleepover.
Blankets cover most of the living room floor.
Pillows have migrated from every bedroom in the house, and somebody's dragged down three mattresses despite the fact that half the women now insisting on sleeping downstairs are the same ones who complained about communal sleeping during the security meeting. Fear changes preferences fast.
Maya's claimed the biggest corner of the sofa and built a defensive nest out of cushions, snacks, and two bottles of water. Sarah's cross-legged on the rug with a book open in her lap, though she's been staring at the same page for at least ten minutes.
Emily chose to stay upstairs. Yesterday she'd have followed whatever everyone else decided, because being alone felt too dangerous. Tonight she listened to the update, checked the new lock herself, and told me to stop hovering after the second time I checked on her. I'll take that as progress.
The house is quieter now, though it doesn't feel peaceful exactly.
Every creak carries too far. Every engine outside makes somebody lift their head.
Still, nobody's asking what's happening, because the security phone's kept updating us through the evening.
Rook and Ice Pick are back from watching the warehouse.
Nothing moved. The SUV hasn't been seen again. Patrols stay doubled.
Information doesn't erase fear. It stops fear from inventing ten worse versions of the truth, and I'll take that over sitting here scared and guessing.
Frankie comes into the kitchen carrying six empty mugs balanced between both hands. “You’re officially banned from making any more tea.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s midnight.”
“Exactly.” She sets the mugs beside the sink. “People have consumed enough caffeine to see through time.”
“I thought that was coffee,” I point out.
“You made tea with enough sugar to qualify as dessert,” Frankie replies.
I lift my mug protectively. “It’s emotional support tea.”
“It’s emotional diabetes,” she corrects.
Frankie loads the mugs into the dishwasher, then comes to lean against the counter beside me. Her expression loses its teasing edge.
“You can stop now,” she says gently.
I stare down into my tea. “Stop what?”
“Holding the entire house up,” Frankie tells me.
“I’m not,” I deny, but the words sound weak even to me.
She turns her head and waits, and I hate when she does that, because maybe I am. The women know the threat's outside. They know someone tested the window. What the women don’t need is to see that I’m frightened too.
Except Frankie is right. Hiding it isn’t fair to me either. If we keep telling everyone that they don’t have to pretend they’re fine, I should probably stop treating myself like the exception.
“I keep expecting something else to happen,” I admit, tightening both hands around my mug.
“Me too,” Frankie says quietly.
Her honesty helps more than reassurance ever could.
I look at her properly. “You’re scared?”
“Of course I am,” she replies.
“You never look frightened,” I tell her.
"Neither do you." She bumps her shoulder against mine, gentle. "Sometimes being strong is being scared and doing the useful thing anyway."
That sounds suspiciously like something Falcon would say. I don't tell her that. She'd never let me live it down.
A knock at the front door sends every muscle in my body straight. The women in the living room go still too, though nobody panics this time. The security phone buzzes right after.
Security Phone:
NIGHT PATROL: Falcon requesting entry. No emergency. Security check and supply delivery.
"Efficient," Frankie says, reading over my shoulder.
There’s another knock. I check the peephole. Falcon is standing on the porch with two cardboard boxes, and he's not alone, Zip's farther back near the path, facing the tree line instead of the house.
I unlock the door and open it fully. "Good to come in?" he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
Falcon steps inside slowly, avoiding any sudden movements. His gaze sweeps across the room, checking each of the women before finally settling on me.
Maya sits up immediately and eyes the boxes in his hands. “Is that food?”
“That depends on how generous you’re feeling about the definition,” Falcon replies.
She narrows her eyes at the boxes. “What is it?”
“Harrier packed sandwiches, fruit, and enough snacks to survive the apocalypse,” he explains.
Maya jumps to her feet. “I like him.”
“Everybody likes Harrier until he starts yelling,” Falcon warns her.
I take one of the boxes from him. Falcon releases it without arguing that it might be too heavy for me.
It’s a small thing, but I notice it anyway.
Frankie opens the first box on the kitchen counter. “Oh, good. Real food.”
“Harrier said that if anyone complains, he’s personally banning them from his kitchen,” Falcon tells her.
Frankie looks offended. “He cannot ban me.”
Falcon raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to test that?”
“No,” she admits.
“Smart,” he replies.
I smile, and Falcon notices the exact moment it happens. His expression softens before he looks away.
The second box contains bottled water, protein bars, batteries, two flashlights, and a ridiculous number of phone chargers.
Maya appears beside me and points proudly at the collection. “I requested those.”
“The chargers?” Falcon asks.
“Yes,” she confirms.
"Good call." She glows, and I've no idea why his approval matters to her this much, except maybe because a man listened, or maybe because she asked for something and somebody actually did it.
Falcon takes one of the flashlights from the box and tests it. “This one is for the emergency kit by the downstairs office. The second one goes upstairs.”
Sarah watches him place it on the counter. “What happens if someone takes something from the kit?”
“Then we replace it,” Falcon answers simply.
Her eyebrows rise. “There’s no sign-out sheet?”
“Condor isn’t allowed to design emotional-support paperwork,” Falcon tells her.
He delivers the line directly to Sarah, and it draws a small but genuine laugh from her.
Falcon looks toward me. “I heard about the lockdown zones.”
“Maya insists that hers needs snacks,” I explain.
“Because I’m correct,” Maya says confidently.
“Clearly,” Falcon agrees, his expression so solemn that she looks delighted.
I shake my head at him. “You’re encouraging her.”
“She’s not my problem,” he replies.
“She becomes your problem when she demands club-funded chocolate,” I warn him.
“He already denied it,” Maya complains.
I look at her. “Falcon did?”
“Vulture,” she clarifies.
Falcon grimaces. “That’s harsh.”
For the next few minutes, Falcon helps unload the boxes without taking control of the room. He asks Sarah where she wants the flashlights, lets Maya explain her emergency-snack theory in painful detail, and listens when Lena tells him she wants the upstairs hall light left on all night.
“Then leave it on,” Falcon tells her.
Lena hesitates. “It’ll use electricity.”
“So?” he asks.
“It feels wasteful,” she admits.
“The club can afford a light bulb,” Falcon assures her.
Her mouth twitches into the beginning of a smile. “Okay.”
Zip appears in the doorway but makes no move to enter. “The south line is clear.”
Falcon turns toward him. “Where’s Rook?”
“He’s covering the north line,” Zip reports.
“And Ice Pick?” Falcon asks.
“He’s at the rear fence,” Zip replies.
"Rotate in twenty," Falcon tells him, and Zip nods, glances at the women. "Everyone okay?"
"Mostly," Sarah answers.
"Mostly counts," Zip says, and disappears again, and there's something different in the way Falcon watches him go, less like he needs to carry every man in this club and more like he trusts them to carry themselves.
Falcon closes the empty box. "I should go."
Maya looks put out. "You just got here."
"I'm working." He shakes his head at her.
"Boring." She rolls her eyes.
"Terrible habit," he says, and carries the box toward the door, and I follow him, not because I need to, apparently my feet just have opinions of their own.
At the doorway he stops. "Lock the door behind me."
I raise an eyebrow.
He catches himself. "Please."
That almost gets a smile out of me. "That’s better."
Falcon opens the front door, and cold air sweeps through the hallway. Before stepping outside, he looks back toward the living room.
“Do you have the security phone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I confirm.
“Is it charged?” Falcon continues.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Falcon.”
“Right.” He releases a slow breath. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed to ask questions,” I tell him.
“Apparently not too many,” he replies.
“That depends on the questions,” I point out.
Falcon shifts the remaining box beneath his arm. Neither of us speaks for a moment.
I should let him leave.
Instead, I ask, “How long are you on patrol?”
“Until two,” he answers.
“You were out last night too,” I remind him.
“Not all night,” Falcon says.
“That wasn’t what I said.”
His mouth twitches. “It’s only a couple more hours.”
“You need sleep,” I tell him.
“So do you,” he counters.
“I’m not carrying a gun around a dark compound,” I point out.
“You could,” Falcon suggests.
I stare at him.
A real smile spreads across his face, and the sight sends something warm through my chest that I choose not to examine too closely.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“So I’ve heard,” he replies.
The humour fades more slowly this time. My gaze drops to the club cut stretched across his shoulders.
“Are you doing this because of the window?” I ask.
“Partly,” Falcon admits.
“And the rest?” I press.
“It’s my job,” he answers.
The response is simple, and I believe him.
“You don’t have to stand outside this house personally all night,” I remind him.
“I know,” Falcon says.
I study his face. “Do you?”
He actually considers the question instead of brushing it off. "Yes, I do. I've got brothers covering every line. When my shift's done I'm going to bed."
"You're actually going to bed?" I laugh, because I can't help it.
"Apparently that's where people sleep,” he says, smiling.