Page 13 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

S unlight sliced across my face like a blade, and I groaned into the pillow.

She was already up. Bare feet padded across the floor with the kind of quiet urgency only women and soldiers seemed to master. When I cracked one eye open, I saw her—Blue, standing at the edge of the bed like a mirage I didn’t deserve.

She was wearing my old Army T-shirt — the one I thought I’d lost in the cave during that mission in Marjah. That stubborn woman had gone through my duffel bag, picked it out, and put it on like it belonged to her. It damn well did.

Toothbrush in her mouth. Hair a mess. No armor today. She looked like a fever dream I’d been having for three years.

“You watching me again?” she mumbled through the toothpaste foam.

I stretched, one shoulder cracking. “Always.”

She pointed the toothbrush at me like a dagger. “Don’t start. I’m late.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I lay there in a haze of sore muscles and her scent. Bear had claimed a spot by my legs, snoring softly, tail twitching like he was dreaming of rabbits or raiding Blue’s trash again.

She came back out fully scrubbed and half-buttoned, her hair tied up like she meant business, her mouth set in that determined line I’d learned not to argue with.

Except her throat was red.

From me.

That flush of heat rushed through me again, damn near painful.

“Come back here,” I said, low and gravelly.

She paused, gave me that look like I was dangerous and she liked it more than she should. “Lightfoot, I’ve got a bullet wound in Room 2 and a kid with a busted jaw in Room 1. Go home.”

“Or…” I offered, “I come with you. Help out. Your emotional support idiot. I'm house-trained, I swear.”

She snorted — the kind of laugh that shot through me like a firecracker.

“I don’t need a guard, and you’re not a puppy.”

“Maybe not a puppy,” I said, sitting up, “but I’ll stay. You know I’ll stay.”

Her face softened. Just a flicker. Like the clouds parted for one damn second and let the light in.

Then she leaned down, one hand braced on my chest, her minty breath ghosting my skin. And she kissed me — not sweet, not shy. It was a claim. A goodbye. A warning.

A don't-forget-what-we-did kind of kiss.

When she pulled back, her eyes were stormy.

“No promises, Cherokee.”

“Never asked for any,” I lied.

She grabbed her bag, nudged Bear with her foot. “You — stay with him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Bear gave a single wag of his tail like, Lady, I’m doing my best.

The door slammed. And then it was just me and the ghost of her, still warm in the sheets.

I dragged on my jeans and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor like it held answers.

“Think she’ll ever let me stay for real?” I asked Bear.

Bear yawned in my face and rolled over.

I took that as a strong maybe.