They stayed in the mountains for six weeks.
Six weeks of healing. Of quiet mornings and peaceful nights. Of learning to exist without the constant threat of violence hanging over them.
Six weeks of becoming the partners they'd fought so hard to be.
It started small.
Killian teaching Isla advanced combat techniques. Not because she needed them for survival anymore, but because she wanted to learn. Because strength felt good. Because training together built trust in ways talking never could.
"Again," Killian said, circling her on the mat they'd set up outside. "You're telegraphing the move. I can see it coming."
"Because you've done this a thousand times. I've done it three."
"Then do it three thousand more. Until it's muscle memory."
Isla attacked. He blocked, redirected, had her on her back in seconds.
She groaned. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." He offered a hand, pulled her up. "You're getting better. Two weeks ago, I'd have had you down in half that time."
