QUIET APPROACH
Chris
Iclear the table, stacking the plates and mugs in neat order. Her cup is not empty yet. She sipped at the coffee as if this whole setup was some unspoken test. She drank, ate and sat with me without incident. That’s a positive development.
The shower is running now. Part of me wants to trust her, but I won’t be easily deceived a second time.
There are systems in place. Not only the hidden devices outside and along the path, but new ones inside too.
Cameras where they need to be to cover the gaps where trust hasn’t formed yet.
This is a job, after all, and jobs come with protocols.
Shortly after the water stops, the low whirr of the hairdryer fills the space. For some reason, the sound gets to me. It’s so ordinary, so domestic, the kind of noise that turns a house into a home. I don’t know how long it’s been since a place truly felt like home, if ever.
A short time later, I sense her on the stairs before she steps into view. Her hair’s damp, face clean, proper clothes on her body. She seems uncertain but stands straighter than this morning. I nod toward the living room. “Let me show you the rest.”
She tags along like she expects a trap. A few minutes out of that spartan confinement doesn’t erase what I put her through.
The tour doesn’t take long. It’s a small place, but enough to relax in when I’m not working. I wave a hand toward the couch and TV. “Living room.”
She glances from the fireplace to the black screen without saying anything.
“The kitchen’s through there,” I add, guiding her toward it.
Her eyebrows lift the slightest bit. She takes in the polished counters, the cabinets I made myself, the spices lined up like soldiers. I built this place to be efficient and functional, but something in her reaction brings out a pride I never admit I have in it.
“Come on,” I say, and we step outside again. The sun’s higher now, and she blocks it with her hand.
“Can you sit down?” I ask, pointing toward the bench. “Let me check your feet?” It’s a question, not a command.
She hesitates, then sits and slips off one sneaker. “They’re still tender,” she says without looking up. “But a lot better.”
She pauses. Then adds, barely audible, “Thanks... for the shoes.”
I crouch in front of her, startled by the thank-you. It sounds genuine and throws me off more than if she’d spit in my face.
The skin is healing under the bandages, but the rawness is still there. She doesn’t jerk when I touch her, just watches me closely as if she’s bracing to strike if I make one wrong move.
“You should let the wounds breathe for a while,” I tell her, setting the old wraps aside. “No shoes for a bit. Let the air help.”
She nods.
I stay crouched a moment longer, then sit back on the bench next to her.
Cash’s words surface again. She’s not a soldier or your enemy. She’s a person. He wasn’t wrong, but that doesn’t mean I know what the hell I’m doing. I’m not used to this kind of quiet approach built on trust and patience. It’s not how I operate, not what I was trained for.
She shifts beside me, brushing damp hair behind her ear. Her gaze drops to her lap, fingers skimming over the curve of her wrist. She’s somewhere deep in her thoughts. There’s a strength in her presence that holds me. I’m unsure if she’s aware of the effect she has, or if she wields it on purpose.
For my reputation and sanity, I need this to work, and that need is a crack in my armor.