He walks back to the little hut in silence through the cool, dark quiet, broken only by the hum of insects and the call of various night-birds whose names he doesn't know.

The goats are asleep when he arrives. One or two of them give sleepy bleats as he checks that they're safe in their pen. He hushes them and leaves them be, instead walking down to stand by the lakeshore. He stands there for some time, watching the water ripple in the moonlight.

Somehow, he doesn't know how, he'll have to figure out how to cope with Sharon's bright laughing presence without letting himself want. Wanting anything would be too much, he fears - and fears, at the same time, slipping back into the habits of all the long years before.

Weapons aren't allowed to want anything. Only the mission matters.

Whatever answers the lake depths might hold, it keeps to itself. Some uncounted time later, he goes back inside, and goes through his evening routine without thinking.

The purple-and-smoke-colored throw rests on the chest at the end of his bed. He lies down and stares at the ceiling in the darkness, and doesn't let himself think, and doesn't sleep, and doesn't sleep, and doesn't--

In the deep of night, he gives in. He pushes his pillow to the side and folds the throw under his head instead. If he tries hard enough, he can almost imagine that he can smell the scent of her hair.