Steam curled above the little stove as a second pot clicked into place. Sura had already boiled rice making them soft, steamy and was now slicing dried carrots into thin coins, letting them fall with neat taps into a simmering broth. No firewood would burn after the fog lifted—she was stockpiling warmth while she could.
Evan entered the passageway, boots silent against the flagstones. He paused at the arch and watched: the subtle shift of her shoulders when she stirred, the calm precision of her knife work. For a heartbeat he simply took in the domestic quiet, so alien inside a fortress of traps and secrets. She looked like a wife cooking for her newlywed husband.
Evan adorned the gait of a cat. He crossed the room on the balls of his feet and slipped both arms around her waist, palms settling against the rough wool of her tunic.
Sura's whole body jolted; a wooden spoon clattered on the counter. Before she could speak, Evan lowered his mouth to her ear.
"Need a hand, or two?"
His breath stirred a wisp of hair along her neck. For an instant she froze, then bent her knees and dipped beneath his arms in a practiced sidestep, smooth as any evasive drill. She re-emerged just out of reach, cheeks blazing the shade of winter apples.
"Sterilize your instruments," she said, refusing to meet his eyes. "The ones I used on that stubborn hole in your ribs."
Evan found himself grinning. No rebuke, no slap, only that crimson glow and a task handed over. He raised both hands in surrender. "Scalpels and forceps, understood."
He fetched the small copper pan, filled it from the cistern, and set it over a finger of blue flame. As the water warmed, he laid the tools on a rag, arranging them edge to edge. Behind him, Sura's knife resumed its steady rhythm. The kitchen filled with quiet industry: simmer, tap, clink—the sound of two soldiers pretending, for a moment, that survival could feel almost ordinary.
When the water rolled into a low boil, Evan eased the instruments in. "Anything else?"
Sura glanced over, hair swinging like a metronome. She opened her mouth, seemed to think better of whatever she'd planned to say, and gave him a tiny nod.
"If you are going to be like this…promise me that you won't disappear on a cat's feet."
Evan caught the slight shaking of her voice and the flicker of a smile at the corner of her lips, small, reluctant, entirely real.
"No promises," he said softly, "but I'll try."
"That's a shame. I am disappointed." Sura set the knife down and folded her arms, trying for stern but not hiding the amused tilt of her mouth. "What good is a man who won't give his teammate a straight promise?"
Evan lifted the bubbling pan off the flame and slid the tongs through the handles, steam veiling his grin. "I gave you a straight answer, just an honest one. I'm built for forward motion, remember?"
"Then re-engineer yourself," she shot back, stepping close enough that the broth's warmth brushed their joined shadows on the wall. They could feel each other's breath and peered into their eyes for any falsehoods.
"Because if you ghost off again and I find this place empty, I'll break into the Concord and surrender just to give your leads to them."
He raised a brow. "You'd risk the gallows for a lecture?"
"For a partner." Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she held the gaze. "The last of the unit means nothing if we don't act like one. So, here's my bargain: you don't vanish, I don't bleed out patching strangers while you play lone wolf. Deal?"
Evan's fingers drummed once on the cooling copper, then he offered his open palm. "Conditions?"
"You leave a written route when you need to leave. You mention the number of days you need to be away, and if either of us is gone more than that— we assume capture, not desertion, and we come running." She placed her hand in his, grip firmer than he expected. "Most of all, no heroic endings without my permission."
A soft laugh rumbled in his chest. "So, I'm responsible for you now?"
"Utterly," she said, relief flickering behind the tease. "And you for me."
Evan folded her hand in both of his, echoing the gesture from moments before, but steadier. "No promises," he murmured, then amended, "except this one."
Sura nodded turning away as she extinguished the flames. "I can work with that for now."
The steam rose between them, smelling faintly of cedar and copper, and for the first time since the Hollow took them in, Evan felt the future settling into two matched tracks: danger ahead, yes, but walked side by side.
They portioned the hot broth into small stone crocks, pressed waxed cloth across each mouth, and set the lot inside the stove's fading warmth where it would stay safely hot until noon. Sura slid the rice pot off the coals and folded a blanket over the lid to hold its steam. Only when every ember had been banked did she turn, wiping her hands on a nearby rag.
"Lunch secured," she said, giving the covered dishes a final, satisfied nudge. "What's next on the schedule?"
Evan unrolled a scuffed leather kit that held chalk, twine, and tiny bronze pins. "Outer circle maintenance," he answered. "I want fresh trip lines on the south approach—something quiet that warns us without flagging the hillside."
"Clay bells or slate slips?" Sura asked.
"Slate. The wind's up; bells would rattle all day." He glanced at her bandaged knuckles. "You steady enough with a hammer?"
Her answering smile was slow but steady. "You keep me supplied with breakfast, I'll keep you supplied with defenses."
They split the pins, pocketing half each, and headed for the tunnel—two shadows sliding into grey daylight to lace the perimeter before the valley fully woke, their footsteps aligned like matching beats in the same careful march toward noon.