"That's not as comforting as you think it is."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Wasn't trying to comfort you. Just stating facts."
"Well, your facts suck."
He actually laughs, a low rumble that does absolutely nothing to help my nerves. Or maybe it does something entirely different, because I'm suddenly very aware of how his shoulders fill out that flannel shirt. How the fabric pulls slightly across his chest when he moves.
Not helpful, Maya.
"So, we agree," I say. "You stay."
"You trust me that much?"
"I trust that you've had multiple opportunities to hurt me and haven't." I move past him toward the kitchen. "I also trust that rifle you're holding."
I pull out ingredients for dinner. Pasta, because it's quick and I need something to focus on that isn't the dangerous man whose forearms flex in a very distracting way as he handles the weapon.
"Most people with amnesia would be more freaked out about all this," I say, filling a pot with water.
"Maybe I'm not most people."
"That's becoming increasingly obvious."
He sets the rifle against the wall near the door, then crosses to the kitchen, leaning against the counter beside me.
"Need help?" he asks.
"You cook?"
"No idea. But I can follow instructions."
I hand him a knife and a cutting board. "Garlic. Mince it."
He takes the knife, testing its weight. For a second, I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. The blade looks natural in his grip, like an extension of his arm. But then he's peeling garlic cloves with surprising efficiency.
"You've definitely done this before," I observe.
"Apparently." He glances at me, something almost playful in his expression. "Though I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing in your assessment of my character."
"Jury's still out."
We work in silence for a few minutes. I'm acutely aware of every movement he makes, the way his hands move with precision, the flex of muscle in his shoulders. He's graceful in a way that shouldn't be possible for someone his size.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a different kind of shiver down my spine.
"So, Pavel," Sasha says. "He's the only person who visits regularly?"
"Pretty much. He's been good to me since I moved here." I stir the pasta. "Checks in, makes sure I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere."
"And the deliveries?"
"Rare. Maybe once every few months when I need something specific." I turn to face him. "Why are you bringing this up again?"
"Just trying to understand the pattern. If someone's been watching, they'd know your routine. Know when you're vulnerable."
"I'm always vulnerable out here."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something fierce in them. "Not anymore."