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Cyclone

T he Morning Before

The first light of dawn slid through the window like a whisper.

Jude lay beside me, one leg hooked over mine, her breath warm against my chest. Her hand moved lazily along the scar on my ribs—the one I never talked about.

“Bullet or blade?” she asked softly, her voice thick with sleep.

“Both,” I said with a smirk. “Bullet made the mess. Blade tried to finish it.”

She smiled against my skin. “You’re hard to kill.”

“Getting harder now that I’ve got something worth staying alive for.”

Her fingers stilled.

And then she tilted her head up to meet my eyes.

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Every word.”

I kissed her slowly—no heat this time, just truth.

When we finally moved, it was quiet and unhurried. We dressed side by side, loading gear in silence, syncing communications, strapping in knives and radios like it was second nature.

It was.

But this time felt different.

Not because of what we were walking into—but because of what we could lose.

“You ready?” I asked as I checked the wire on my mic.

Jude nodded, tying her hair back with the calm of a woman walking straight into the fire.

“Let’s end this,” she said.