His POV
The cabin was dark except for a faint spill of moonlight through the small window. My eyes adjusted instantly.
She lay on the cot, tangled in the blanket, her body thrashing as if trying to break free from invisible chains. Her head turned side to side, and her hands waved in the air, as if trying to stop someone or protect someone.
"No, don't—don't touch her! Let her go! She's just a kid—please!" she cried out, her voice breaking with fear.
I stood frozen for a moment. I wasn't unsure of what to do; I had seen this kind of terror before. I had seen it in soldiers, in children caught in raids, and in women who had lived through horrors they couldn't explain.
But it feels different when it happens in a place like this. Here, in my woods.
She cried out again, her words slurring together. "Don't hurt her… don't!"
Who was she referring to? A sister? A friend? Someone she believed she couldn't save? I couldn't tell, but that girl was important to her. She felt unable to protect her. That kind of guilt does not go away; it stays with you.
Her fists gripped the blanket tightly as if fighting off ghosts. Her breathing was fast, and her forehead glistened with sweat.
I stepped a little closer. I didn't touch her—not yet. I didn't want to scare her more. She was not awake; she was trapped in a nightmare.
Again, she whimpered, her voice softer. "Don't take her…"
Then, I carefully crouched beside the cot. For reasons I didn't understand, I reached out and rested my hand gently against her head, just above her tangled hair. I wanted to be gentle enough not to wake her but firm enough to help her feel grounded.
Her breathing caught for a moment, then slowed. The tension in her face eased. Her fists relaxed, her lips parted, and a quiet sigh came out, as if a heavy weight lifted from her chest.
She didn't wake, but the storm inside her calmed.
I kept my hand on her for a moment longer, watching her and listening to the silence settle back into her. Her breath steadied under my palm, but the tears on her lashes came from more than just sleep. They were old, salty—like wounds I recognized too well.
I pulled my hand back as if she had burned me. She shifted, curling inward—not weak, but hurt. It reminded me of an animal hiding from pain. I knew that movement; I had done it myself in hospitals and safehouses. The memory scared me more than her scream.
Whatever she had seen… whoever she had tried to save… it was not over. Not for her. And not for me either, it seemed. Here I was, kneeling beside a stranger, calming her through a nightmare instead of walking away like I usually did. My fingers brushed back some damp hair from her cheek. She looked younger like this. Not weak—just tired.
What are you running from? And why do I want to find out?
The cabin was quiet, and her breathing had settled. I didn't plan to stay. I was supposed to check on her, calm her down, and leave—return to the shadows where I felt safe while she slept in peace. But my knees hadn't moved. Something inside me didn't want to leave her alone in this moment. Not like this.
So I stayed. I leaned my back against the wall beside her cot and sat on the cold wooden floor. My boots were still laced. My hand rested in my lap, but my eyes were fixed on her face. She looked soft, not weak—never weak—but calm. The kind of calm people can feel when they feel… safe.
It was strange. She didn't know who I was, yet she trusted me enough to fall asleep next to me. I studied her features in the dim moonlight—the shape of her lashes, her cheekbones, and the faint scar near her right temple that looked recent and only half-healed.
What happened to you? Who hurt you?
I tilted my head back against the wall and let my eyes close for a moment. Just for a breath. I'll leave in a minute, I thought. I always do.
—
I woke up to silence. Sunlight streamed through the window, warm and soft. I blinked at the ceiling, trying to understand what was happening.
Wait. What?
I sat up too fast, my heart racing and my hands flexing. I looked around, alert. My training kicked in before I fully realized what had happened.
I… slept?
I stared, still in disbelief.
I slept.
Real sleep.
Not the kind where your body rests while your mind races. Not the nightmares filled with blood and betrayal. Not the quick crashes that leave you drenched in sweat and tense.
This… was different.
Still. Calm. Restful.
It hit me hard: I hadn't slept properly in days—maybe weeks. Not on my bedroll outside. Not in my high-rise suite in the city. Not on planes or in bunkers, where my trusted men kept watch.
But here, sitting beside her…
It just happened.
No panic. No overthinking. Just quiet.
I frowned as I stared at the wooden ceiling. Why?
Why her?
What was it about this girl—a complete stranger—that made the war in my mind stop? What made my body finally let go?
I didn't know why, and maybe I didn't want to know yet. Some questions can lead to more pain if asked too soon.
So instead, I exhaled slowly and looked at her still-sleeping form, the blanket rising and falling gently with each breath. Unintentionally, I smiled slightly.
The answer wouldn't come. Not yet.
Dawn light crept into the cabin, painting the floorboards in pale gold. I untangled myself from the calm she had brought me and stood up. My coat was still draped over the chair where I'd left it. I slipped it on, my fingers lingering on the collar.
I needed coffee. Or whiskey—something to clear the sleep from my mind.
I stepped outside.
The morning air was sharp. It bit at my breath as I walked across the porch and stepped down. The trees stood still, watching. The sky above was just starting to light up.
I didn't go far—just to the side shed, where the cold couldn't reach the locked steel case behind the wood stack. I knelt down, unlocked it with ease, and pulled out the flask I kept for moments like this. Not for celebrating. Not for drowning sorrows. Just to steady myself.
The metal felt cold against my palm. I unscrewed the cap, leaned back against the porch post, and let the whiskey burn as it slid down my throat. One sip. Two.
It was rough, aged, and quietly expensive. This was the kind of drink you enjoyed alone, not with friends, when the past wouldn't let you be.
I stood there, eyes on the horizon, where the forest spread out like a mystery waiting to be revealed. She was in there, somewhere. In this place. In my calm. That thought made the whiskey feel heavier.
I capped the flask and put it back in its place. Then, I turned and stepped inside. The door creaked as I entered the warmth of the cabin again. The faint scent of ash and damp cotton lingered in the air.
It was time to reset.
I walked quietly to the kitchen, moving carefully to avoid noise. The stove still held some warmth from the night before, with a few stubborn embers glowing gently.
I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed a log, and revived the fire. Then, I took out two eggs. I cracked them into a bowl and whisked them with a pinch of salt, a little black pepper, and a bit of crushed red pepper. I quickly sliced some onions and tomatoes and added them to the pan before the oil got too hot.
I was making an omelet and toasted bread. It was simple and efficient, my favorite kind of breakfast.
Without thinking, I grabbed another two eggs and made a second omelet with the same ingredients and toast. It felt familiar.
I didn't know what she liked. I hadn't asked. But something told me this was a good guess. Another thought reminded me not to care. Yet here I was, preparing the same meal for her that I enjoyed myself. Why?
I didn't have an answer, so I shifted my focus to the kettle. I filled it halfway with water and set it on the back burner. My green enamel mug, chipped at the rim, was waiting for me on the counter. Inside it was a black tea bag, ready to steep—strong and bitter, just the way I liked it.
My eyes wandered to the shelf above the sink. There was the small tin of Turkish tea I had bought months earlier. I never drank it and didn't enjoy how it brewed, but it was strong and of good quality.