Page 43 of Brotan

Maya watches me with a softness in her eyes that makes me want to look away. Her hand slides across the table, fingers intertwining with mine—small and cool against my larger, warmer ones.

"Crow," she says, voice dropping to something private, "do you regret this? Us?"

The question blindsides me. For someone who sees so clearly, she's still missing the obvious—that I'm the one who should be questioning why she's wasting her time with me.

"No," I answer honestly. "But you might."

She squeezes my hand hard enough that I feel it. "Don't tell me what I'll think or feel. I've had enough people telling me who I am my whole life."

The steel beneath her words reminds me of why I fell for her—this fierce human who fights every battle like it's personal, who treats people others discard, who somehow sees past my tusks and scars to whatever still lives beneath.

"We need to check on Gus today," she says, merciful enough to change the subject. "His pneumonia should be clearing, but at his age, there could be complications. I want to make sure his lungs are clear."

“After breakfast," I agree, grateful to return to practical matters. "Then I need to meet with Ash about the warehouse district. He's got new plans for security cameras, and he's only in town until tomorrow."

"I've got clinic hours starting at ten," she says. "Diesel's taking the first shift?"

I nod, ignoring the knot that forms in my gut at the reminder that she still needs protection. That the threat that brought us together remains unresolved. That whoever set those fires is still watching, waiting for an opening.

"I could come with you to meet Ash," she suggests, pulling me from dark thoughts. "I've been sketching ideas for an emergency treatment space in the back of the clinic. Nothing fancy, but a place to stabilize critical patients before transport to the County. He might have structural ideas."

The casual "we" in her planning strikes something deep inside me. It's only been three days, and already she's building a future that seems to include me.

This alliance should feel temporary, wrong even. Instead, it fits like something that was always meant to be—settling into me with a rightness I never expected and damn sure never deserved.

I look at her across the table—the doctor who stitched me up when I was bleeding out, who faced down my demons without flinching, who touches my scars with healing hands instead of fear.

"What?" she asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I lie, because I can't find words for the feeling expanding in my chest. Something too close to hope for comfort.

Our food arrives, and as I predicted, Maya waits until I'm refilling my coffee before stealing the crispiest piece of bacon from my plate. I pretend not to notice, hiding my amusement behind my mug. This small ritual, her pretending she doesn't want it, me pretending not to see her take it, feels like a secret language only we understand.

After breakfast, Maya slides onto the back of my motorcycle without hesitation. Her arms wrap around my waist, and her body pressed against mine. The engine roars to life beneath us, and I feel her sigh against my back—contentment and something deeper vibrating through her chest into mine.

We're about to pull away when her phone buzzes. The change in her is instant—muscles tensing against my spine, breath catching. I feel her shift to check the screen, then quickly slide the phone back into her pocket without answering.

Not the first time I've seen this reaction. Yesterday at the clinic, when her cell rang, her face tightened before she silenced it. And the day before that, same pattern during dinner. She’s avoiding someone, but I don’t pry. Not my business.

We make a quick stop at her bungalow for a change of clothes, then head to Gus's cabin, winding through forest roads painted with early autumn colors. Maya's grip remains steady, her confidence in my handling of the machine a silent affirmation. I find myself wondering when exactly she started trusting me with her life.

Gus greets us at his door with the shotgun he keeps by his chair, more habit than actual threat these days. His face has regained color, the rattling cough that worried Maya last week noticeably absent.

"Back again?" he grumbles as we enter, but there's less bite in his tone than usual. "Some people appreciate solitude, you know."

"Sit down and take it like a man," Maya replies, her professional doctor voice sliding into place as she drops her medical bag on his kitchen table. "The sooner I listen to those lungs, the sooner we're out of your hair."

The old man rolls his eyes but settles into his armchair without further complaint. "Don't see why you bother. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"You had pneumonia at seventy-eight," Maya reminds him, pulling out her stethoscope. "That's nothing to mess around with."

While she examines him, I patrol the small cabin's perimeter, checking the windows and doors out of long-ingrained habit. The place still needs work before winter—roof sagging in one corner, insulation insufficient for the coming cold. I make mental notes of materials needed and repairs to be done in the next few weeks.

"Checking for bogeymen?" Gus asks, eyes following my movement. "Nobody's fool enough to rob a Vietnam vet with a gun collection."

"Just looking," I respond, not elaborating on the security assessment I can't seem to switch off. Too many years expecting threats from every corner.

Fascination grips me as I watch her work with authority and genuine care, blending in her every movement. The same precise attention she gives my wounds, but gentler with the old man's pride.

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