The metallic slide of steel against leather cut through her dreams. Iyisha surfaced slowly, the cold light spilling past the curtains pricking at her eyes.
Malcolm stood beside the bed, buckling straps and sheathing blades, every movement precise, practiced. The soft creak of leather straps accompanied the click of a handgun locking into place at his side. Knives disappeared into sheaths strapped to his belt, each gesture sharp with purpose.
She stirred, hair falling into her face, and his eyes flicked to her—sharp, annoyed—before he looked away and adjusted the strap on his shoulder holster.
"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Get ready. Breakfast." His tone was clipped, almost a snap.
She pushed herself upright. "Wait, are you still pissed about last night?"
He turned fully this time, eyes narrowing with an expression that said he couldn't believe she'd asked. The silent weight of his stare made her stomach knot.
She glanced down and realized she was still in her boxers. Heat shot up her neck as she yanked the blanket over her legs.
"Look at that. You do have shame."
Her cheeks burned. "I'm sorry. I just… panicked last night."
He let out a short, sharp tsk and turned away, the deliberate dismissal heavy in the air. The silence between them swelled, pressing down until it scraped at her nerves.
"I can't get pregnant," she blurted, voice trembling slightly.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"If we have sex, I'll get pregnant. And I can't—" she stumbled over her words, "—I couldn't take care of myself, let alone a child."
He kept staring at her, eyes unreadable. The pause stretched, his silence heavy, too heavy. She shifted on the bed, fingers worrying at the blanket.
"And I don't want to go to Motherhold," she blurted at last, the words tumbling out as if to fill the void. "That place is evil."
Motherhold was a government-run facility that took in pregnant women, holding them there until they gave birth, and rarely letting them leave on their own terms.
Malcolm sighed, some of the sharpness in his face fading. He gave a reluctant nod. "Alright. Let's not talk about it anymore."
Then, after a pause, his voice hardened again. "And we can't do that anymore."
"What?" she said, standing up before she remembered she was barely dressed.
His eyes swept down her form, making her blush harder, but she didn't move closer.
"We can just kiss," she offered hopefully.
He groaned and gripped his hair in frustration. "I said we can't do that anymore. End of discussion."
He walked out, boots heavy on the floorboards, leaving her frozen in place. Kissing had been the one good, warm thing she'd had in days, why wouldn't he want to?
She shook it off, bathed quickly, and dressed.
Her bag felt heavier than usual as she slung it over her shoulder. When she opened the door, Malcolm was there, leaning against the frame as if he'd been guarding it. His gaze flicked over her once before he turned and led the way toward the kitchen.
The smell of porridge hit her first, thick with steam.
The stove crackled softly, spoons clinked against bowls.
It was warm, domestic and at complete odds with the sharp edge still in Malcolm's mood, the contrast making her chest tighten.
Grandma Jo stood at the stove, ladling porridge into bowls. "Sit, sit," she urged, her voice warm and brisk.
John and Matt were already seated at the table. John smiled the moment he saw them, the easy expression a contrast to the tension still clinging to her, while Matt sipped his coffee in unhurried silence.
They ate in relative quiet until Grandma Jo broke it. "So, what's the plan?"
Malcolm set down his spoon. "We need to find another path."
"There's a back road through a farm," Grandma Jo replied, nodding toward the east window. "You can avoid the Vultures' checkpoint entirely if you take it."
Iyisha thanked them for all their help and asked about the bike.
Matt nodded. "I'll get it fixed today."
John suggested that while they waited, they could join him on a hunt. Malcolm glanced at Iyisha, as if weighing the idea, before saying, "We'll come."
But Grandma Jo smiled and said, "Nonsense, that's men's work. Iyisha, I need your help baking a cake instead."
She said yes immediately, her voice bright with excitement—the thought lit Iyisha up. Cakes were rare and far too expensive in Red Ridge.
"You can't," Malcolm said.
Iyisha blinked at him. "Please excuse us," she told the others before stepping out with him onto the porch, away from them.
"You're being too suspicious," she snapped. "They've done nothing but help us."
"You're acting stupid," he said coldly.
She bristled. "You're only acting like this because of last night."
He didn't answer, just looked at her in a way that made her angrier. "You cannot tell me what to do."
"Are you sure you're safe here alone with Grandma Jo and Matt?"
She paused, not liking the condescending tone. "I can take care of myself," she shot back, though her face burned as she remembered telling him minutes ago she couldn't even take care of herself if she got pregnant.
His gaze traveled over her slowly, deliberately, before meeting her eyes again. "Funny, that's not what you said this morning."
Her stomach twisted, the sting sharp and undeniable, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "I can do this. I'm staying."
He was silent for a beat, then said flatly, "Suit yourself." He turned away and started walking, not looking back.