Page 128 of Sinful
I blink. "What?"
"The cabin. No one's using it. Been empty for three years since the last guy moved out. Figured you twocould use the space." He leans against the porch railing, arms crossed. "Bunk's fine for now, but you're not going to want to stay there long-term."
"I couldn't?—"
"You can and you are." He's not asking. "Look, I know my Nomad. Known him for years. And I'll bet anything he stays on the road for six months, maybe a year tops, then decides he wants this place as his home base. Might as well set it up now."
I walk up the porch steps, peer through the dusty window.
Small kitchen. Living area with a fireplace.
Hardwood floors that need refinishing.
But I can see it—morning coffee on this porch, Bravos coming home from a run, building something real.
"It needs work," I say.
"Everything worth having does."
I turn to look at him. "Thank you. Really. I appreciate it."
"Don't thank me yet." His expression is serious. "Let's get through tomorrow first. Then you can start building whatever you're going to build here."
The compound shifts as afternoon turns to evening.
The nervous energy of preparation gives way to something quieter.
More focused.
Men check weapons one last time, call family, write letters they hope no one will have to read.
I feel useless.
I want to help but don't know how.
Dakota finds me standing in the middle of the chaos looking lost.
"Come on," she says, grabbing my arm. "You're helping me with dinner. Keeps your hands busy. Trust me."
So I chop vegetables while she browns meat for chili.
We work in silence, the kitchen warm and normal while outside men prepare for war.
"How do you do this?" I ask finally. "Watch them go out, not knowing?—"
"You breathe. You trust. You find things to keep yourself busy." She stirs the pot. "And you remember that this is who they are. Warriors. Protectors. It's not about us wanting them to go—it's about supporting them when they do."
"That's very zen."
"That's very therapeutic. Grace and I have a good counselor."
I laugh despite myself.
Bravos finds me after dinner.
The sun is setting, painting everything gold and purple.
Most of the men have scattered—last-minute preparations, final calls home, trying to sleep even though no one will.
