Page 24

The kind of ache you only get when you almost had something worth breaking the rules for.

I make coffee with hands that feel too big and a mind too loud. The camp is still asleep, wrapped in the kind of hush that only comes after a storm. Like the world’s holding its breath. Outside, fog clings to the treetops in soft, ghostly drapes, and every pine needle sparkles under the dawn light like it’s been gilded in regret.

She’s plaguing my thoughts once again. Not even the bitter sting of hot coffee can snap me out of it. Last night’s encounter was less than professional, and I don’t just mean her wet clothing sticking a bit too much in some places.

She reads me too well. And I’m starting to enjoy it.

I cross the camp slowly, dragging my boots across gravel damp with last night’s tantrum. The paths are littered with fallen branches and leaves, and the air smells like turned earth and wet ash. I breathe it in like I’m trying to fill the part of me that still feels hollow.

I don’t expect her to be in the mess hall this early, but I should have. Julie’s always there. First in, last out, clipboard in hand and hair pulled tight like armor. If anything, I should’ve known she’d be even earlier today. Get a head start on pretending like nothing happened. Like the near-kiss in the dark, the hand that brushed her cheek, the sharp inhale right before…

No. That’s over.

Done.

Except I walk through that door and there she is.

Exactly as I pictured: sleeves rolled, mug clutched in one hand, eyes locked on some document in the other. She’s dressed practical—work boots, hoodie, scarf—but she still manages to look like something warm you’d find on purpose. Something real.

She doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Morning,” she replies, flat and clipped.

The word hits like a wall. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t glance over. Doesn’t do that thing where she half-smiles like she knows I’m watching.

I pour my own cup of coffee, standing awkwardly at the side counter like a guest in my own mess hall. The silence stretches long and tight. I clear my throat.

“Storm didn’t hit the west ridge as bad as we thought. Mainline power’s steady. East water line’s up.”

“Good,” she says, scribbling something. “Then the welcome tent reopens at ten. We’ll have power in time for the morning briefing.”

I wait for something else—some snark, some spark—but there’s nothing. Just cool, even words like she’s reading off a spreadsheet.

I walk around the table, facing her directly. “Julie.”

She finally looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and damn if it doesn’t sting. She’s holding herself like a fortress today. Tidy. Controlled. Like she reinforced her walls overnight.

“We need to talk about last night,” I say.

Her gaze sharpens. “No, we don’t.”

“I think we do.”

“No,” she repeats, firmer this time. “Because I already got the message.”

“I didn’t send one.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “You backed off so fast, you nearly left skid marks.”

“I was trying to be smart.”

“Well, congrats,” she snaps. “You were. Gold star for professionalism.”

I cross my arms. “Julie?—”

“You kissed me with your eyes, Torack. You reached for me. You leaned in. I wasn’t imagining that.”