Malcolm's POV
Malcolm kept looking around, eyes scanning every shadow. The blood trail still fresh in his mind.
He decided to take the nearest house — one close to the exit. Just in case.
Iyisha waited outside, hidden near the corner of a shed, crouched and tense while he swept the interior.
The house was quiet. No groans. No movement. But he still checked every room, every closet, every corner, gun in hand.
Once he was sure it was clear, he opened the garage and waved her over.
Together, they wheeled the bike inside.
He found a length of chain and reinforced the door latch, dragging an old filing cabinet in front of it.
Then they barricaded the door with a broken chair and the rusted cabinet.
The house was small with two floors but dry and no rot. It smelled like mildew, but not death. That was rare.
Malcolm checked every window, every closet. Iyisha did the same. They didn't speak much.
Now, he sat shirtless against the upstairs wall, one knee bent, his back aching. Before settling, he'd gone through the same routine he had for years — military habit.
A quick dry wipe-down with a cloth from his pack, water rationed just enough to clean sweat from his face, neck, and underarms. Fresh shirt folded and set nearby, though he hadn't put it on yet.
He did it all fast, half-distracted, nerves pulled taut from leaving Iyisha alone in the garage for even a few minutes. His wound throbbed in rhythm with his pulse, but at least there was no fever.
He'd knocked softly before entering. Iyisha had changed too, wearing a fresh set of clothes like him. She didn't say anything when he stepped in, just glanced over once and nodded.
He laid a folded blanket down beside the wall, one he found upstairs in a linen closet.
"Rest," he said simply.
Iyisha had lit a candle stub. The light danced against the walls, flickering softly. The garage had no windows — the candle's glow was enough to see, but dim enough to feel safe.
"Let me check it," she said.
He didn't argue. He took off his pants first. He wasn't about to let this woman cut them again and sat down on the chair.
She knelt between his legs, setting a small cloth roll of supplies on the floor.
Her hands were quiet, practiced. Her face focused. Her shirt clung to her from the heat of the ride, strands of damp hair brushing her cheek. She didn't wipe them away. Just kept working.
Malcolm's jaw flexed.
She dipped gauze in alcohol and pressed around the wound.
He flinched, but not from the pain.
Her hands moved lower — checking for swelling, infection. Her fingers slid just under the band of his waistband.
She didn't notice. He did.
His cock twitched — fast, thick, heavy. Damn it.
He closed his eyes, tried to breathe through it. Praying she wouldn't notice — the way he was hard beneath his shirt, hidden just enough to avoid humiliation. Hopefully.
She was just doing her job.
But God, she was right there.
Kneeling between his legs.
His fists curled.
She doesn't notice. But he does.
God, he does.
He bites down on the inside of his cheek, fists clenched at his sides.
She's just doing her job.
She's just—fuck. She's kneeling between his legs, and all he can think about is what it would feel like if she moved her hands higher. If her mouth—
She looked up.
"You okay?"
Her voice was soft. Tired.
"Yeah." His throat burned on the word.
She didn't move. Her hand still rested on his thigh, hot against his skin.
He hated how attuned he was to everything she did — the weight of her touch, the sound of her breathing, the way her fingertips had grazed just a little too close to where he was already straining.
Then she murmured, "The skin's hot, but not infected. You'll live."
She wrapped it carefully, efficiently. Her hand brushed his abdomen as she leaned back. Still, she didn't meet his eyes — not because she was embarrassed, he thought — but maybe because she felt it too.
But she didn't say anything. Just packed up the gauze, avoiding his eyes.
Then she stood.
"I'll take first watch," she said.
He stopped her. "No. You sleep. I rested all the way here. You need energy for tomorrow."
She hesitated. Then nodded.
She curled up in the corner, with the blanket under her, back to the wall. One arm under her head. The other draped over her waist.
Malcolm stared out the cracked wall. One hand near his knife.
The other still clenched in his lap.
The ache between his legs refused to fade.
He wanted her. God, he wanted her.
His throat was dry.
He'd caught the curve of her waist when she changed. The subtle stretch of her new shirt over her chest. The softness beneath the fire. It was getting dangerous — being this close, being this aware.
He blew out the candle.
The darkness helped.
Helped with not seeing her.
Not with his imagination.
Hours passed. He'd cooled down, a little. The tension in his body eased, but it didn't vanish. Not with her asleep a few feet away, the scent of her sweat and soap still faint in the air.
Outside, the early morning air was still dark, but the sky had softened — pale gray outlining trees and rooftops. For a moment, it almost felt still. Malcolm had stayed alert through the hours, but now, with just enough light to see, he moved.
He walked over and crouched beside her. "Iyisha."
She stirred, mumbling something groggy and unintelligible as she blinked up at him.
He touched her shoulder gently. "Time to go."
Then — a gunshot cracked through the silence.
"…Shit."