The World We Live In | 𝚃. 𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙾 ♤

Chapter 24

After the long, revealing night, the militia from the night run and the midnight hour cloaked the Ranch in tranquility. Their silhouettes were ghostly against the backdrop of the sprawling Ranch. Tired faces and exhausted bodies sought the solace of their homes. Troy, however, made a detour. His boots crunched over the gravel as he weaved through the cabins, careful to keep his presence unobserved.

Cristine's cabin, sequestered in the far corner of the Ranch, offered a warm, golden light peeking through a small window, standing against the encompassing darkness like a beacon in the quiet night. Troy stood momentarily on the porch, his hand hovering over the worn-out wooden door. He knocked thrice, the sound barely audible.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and Cristine stood in the doorway, her warm gaze meeting his. "Come in," she whispered, stepping aside to let him in. Her cozy cabin was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the cold and loneliness of the big house. Troy took a moment to let his eyes adjust, appreciating the sense of peace the space offered. The inviting warmth of the cold outside instantly relaxed him.

"Troy," Cristine started, her eyes scrutinizing his weary frame. His shoulders were slumped, and the moonlight made his skin look more pallid than usual. Troy was running on his last fumes, which wasn't lost on Cristine.

"I know, I know," he preempted her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You promised," Cristine reminded him sternly.

"I did," he conceded, his voice almost inaudible against the steady rhythm of the wind outside.

Troy felt the weight of the concern etched into Cristine's features. She surprised him when moving closer to him, her fingers tracing the outline of his tactical vest. Cristine's movements were immediate, her focus unwavering as her nimble fingers undid the buckles and fasteners.

"I'm not a kid, Cristine," Troy grumbled.

"Then stop complaining like one," Cristine bit back without looking up at him and focused on deftly navigating through removing each piece of gear. Each removal felt like lifting a bit of Troy's physical burden. Her touch was gentle yet firm, comforting against his tired body.

Troy parted his lips but didn't say more. Despite his initial reluctance, he allowed himself to be drawn into the intimate space Cristine created. As she worked, he sponged up her appearance. Cristine had a pattern of frowning when focused. Troy felt his fingers twitch and pushed down the urge to rub his fingers between the dent of her brows. The rest of her mouth was set in a line of determination.

Troy took in Cristine's concentration in peeling off the heavy militia gear. His tired muscles relaxed under her palms, starkly contrasting the typical tension that plagued him. Cristine pushed the camo jacket from his rigid shoulders and peeled the next fabric. Her fingers lingered at the lining of his fatigue. Troy inhaled and exhaled when she leaned forward on her toes to finally slide his thick army jacket from his shoulders, revealing his dark green t-shirt underneath. Cristine's proximity made Troy lose himself in her striking eyes, briefly looking right back. The warmth of her hands penetrated the fabric of his thin shirt underneath and reached his skin.

"I got it from here," Troy murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He stepped back, the absence of Cristine's touch leaving a void he hadn't realized he'd craved.

Cristine straightened, her gaze meeting his. "All right," she replied softly, her eyes searching his face. There was a momentary hesitation, an unspoken connection between them. Then she nodded and turned her attention to his discarded gear, neatly arranging it on the chair. "Go shower," Cristine instructed, her voice gentle despite her stern expression.