A/N: There is some sexual content in this chapter, but nothing explicit by any means.

Later that evening, and as far away from civilization as one man could probably get, John Sheppard stood in the snow before his woodpile, weighing his options. He chose the largest one he could find and dragged it over to all that was left of a massive oak tree that at once stood near the northwest edge of his property. It had come down in a storm years ago and taken John and Eddie nearly two days to take down. The stump it had left behind was the perfect place to chop firewood, so he threw the heavy log on top of it and prepared to attack it with his ax.

Temperatures had fallen to well below freezing, but John ignored the cold - and the way it numbed the tips of his unprotected fingers - and readied his ax. It was an old, sturdy thing he'd found in the old woodshed out back - thick, heavy, and unyielding in his hands. The perfect instrument for his aggression.

Swinging it above his head in a savage arc, John brought the ax down with such force, the impact traveled up his arm and nearly rattled the teeth out of his head. It was a vivacious blow, yet the stubborn log remained intact. Using a boot for leverage, he pried the blade from where it had embedded itself in the wood and readied his stance again. A gust of winter wind rushed past and kicked up some of the thin snow covering the ground around his feet. John had never been much of a fan of the cold. Not since one particularly memorable off-world mission where he and Ronon had been stranded on a planet made of nothing but ice. But he was strung up tighter than a piano wire at the moment, and what better way to release some tension than by attacking his woefully neglected woodpile. It sure beat the alternative, which probably would have entailed smashing up some of the only possessions he had left back inside the cabin.

Planting his feet on the frozen ground, John brought the ax up again. It felt good to use his muscles like this. Physical activity had always been a source of comfort for him. Whether it was running the metal walkways of Atlantis with Ronon or sparring with Teyla and her Bantos. It gave him an outlet for his racing thoughts, and a way to keep his anger in check that didn't involve property damage. It had been such a long time since he'd gotten this angry. Thankfully his unsuspecting woodpile was around to take the brunt of that anger.

Every new log would be a piece of his past. Each new swing a deathstroke to the people who ruined his life.

John swung the ax, and this time when it landed, the log finally split in two, and with a crack that echoed off through the trees. The halves fell into the snow on either side of the stump, the victims of his anger lying still and quiet where they landed. He stood staring at them for a moment, arm aching, before he bent to retrieve the larger half from the snow and place it back on the stump. He wasn't finished with it yet.

What would they think of him, he wondered? The people he'd left behind after the war? Would Heightmeyer find this therapeutic wood chopping amusing? Or would she look at him in that way she always used to, with her head tilted ever so slightly to the side while she told him what an idiot he was being. And John was being an idiot. For ever thinking he could live out the remainder of his days here. Or that he could have outrun the past.

John swung the ax around again and splinters of wood flew everywhere, reminding him of the shells his P90 used to expel during firefights. He cleared the stump then retrieved another log from the woodpile. This one wasn't so thick, and John soon lost himself in the rhythmic work of chopping firewood. He let his muscles take over as he worked, his mind wandering back to Eddie and that twit of a Major. What in the world had they been thinking, sending in a kid like that to try and talk him into coming back? Who's brilliant idea had that been?

Woolsey's probably, his brain supplied as John decimated yet another log. It seemed like something that simpering, whimpering, petty excuse for a human being might do. He probably had orders to bring John in, no matter the cost. And, knowing he could never show his face here, had sent some poor kid in to do his dirty work. Some unsuspecting desk jockey who didn't have a clue as to what was really going on. And one who had somehow managed to track him down with something as stupid as a photo on the internet. John was completely off the grid out here, and yet they still had been able to find him. He was such a fool to ever think he'd ever be allowed to find peace. Though it begged the question, after all that he had done - with what those bastards had made him do - did he even deserve to?

Putting every ounce of the anger he was feeling into his next swing, John brought the ax down again and nearly severed the head from its handle.

How could they? Where did they get off thinking that they could just show up here and ask him to come back? The sheer audacity of the IOA to think that he could ever forgive or forget what they had done and return to the SGC, let alone go back to Atlantis, was mind-blowing.

But when John really let himself think about it, he realized he knew exactly why they had sent in Major Fancypants. Everything was finally back on track. The government was rebuilding and ready to go back to Atlantis. And John Sheppard was apparently still the only person on Earth who could get them there. What did it matter that they had betrayed him on the most reprehensible level? What did they care if they ruined his life and everything he had built for himself here in Blue River?

John paused to swiped at the sweat dripping down his face and running into his eyes, making them burn.

18 long years and his wounds from the war were still there, just as fresh and as raw as the day he'd gotten them. Invisible wounds that had never fully healed, despite John's best efforts at convincing himself otherwise. And all it had taken to rip off his bandages and expose those old wounds was a visit from some fucktard with the USSF. That was all they needed to bring his life here crashing down around him. Soon the whole town would hear the story of what happened at The Crabby Girl today. They wouldn't run him out of town or anything, but they would start looking at him funny, just like they had 18 years ago when he'd waltzed into their little community with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a military issue duffle bag slung across his back.

That duffle was long gone, but its contents certainly were not. They were stashed beneath the floorboards in his bedroom on the cabin's second floor. Remnants of an old life he never imagined he'd ever have to think about again. There were a few paper files, some flash drives with enough evidence on them to use as leverage just in case DC didn't take kindly to his refusal of their "offer." But the real treasures were his photographs. Faces frozen in time. Of people he loved and lost. They were all he had left. All that was left of them.

John gave one final swing of his ax and realized that he was done. He'd burnt through every shred of anger he had left and now he was just tired. A bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to permeate every inch of his being. He left the ax buried in the stump where it landed and started gathering up as many of the split logs as he could carry before making the trek back up to the cabin.

It had begun to snow and John had to blink away the flakes that tried to attach themselves to his lashes as he trudged through the snow. It took him four trips, but eventually, the stack of wood beside his fireplace was back to an appropriate level. He knelt beside the stone hearth with the creak of old joints and then set to work on building up his fire. It didn't take long. John's cabin had no heat, and he had been building fires in this fireplace every day for the past two decades. When the cabin was finally filled with warm, flickering light, John got back up to his feet and let himself collapse into one of the wing-backed chairs that sat nearby.

He watched the flames in silence for a good long while, his troubled thoughts far afield. There was a battery-operated radio on a small table beside him that he could have turned on, but tonight he craved the silence. He hadn't thought about Atlantis for a very long time and now long-forgotten memories were coming up from his subconscious and demanding to be revisited. He didn't really fight them. Sometimes he just had to stop and think about it all. Remember the places he had been and the people he knew. Like he did sometimes with the photographs upstairs beneath the floorboards.

There was no power in John's cabin. His only source of light was the oil lamps he kept on hand, and the cabin's two fireplaces. There was the one he was sitting beside now and another in the upstairs bedroom. He had a generator in case of emergencies, but he only really ever used it on the rare occasions when Carrie spent the night and wanted a warm shower in the morning.

Surprisingly enough, John didn't miss it. He had no phone and his laptop had long ago run out of juice. He rose and fell each day with the sun. It was a simple life, a good life, and one he had never thought to complicate with something as capricious as power.

Power was fickle and could always go out on you. Power devoured and gave nothing back. John had seen it destroy entire lives… So what was it good for? What use for it did he have here, beyond creature comforts? Nature gave him everything he needed, though he occasionally missed the conveniences of power on wintery nights like these.

Another added benefit of being so secluded was the fact John rarely got visitors, though it was known to happen from time to time. Evidence of his most recent visitor was smeared across the glass of his front windows and door. John had half a mind to get out of his chair and attack Major Asshat's palm prints with some glass cleaner, but it was still freezing in the cabin and his fire was perfect. He just didn't feel like getting up out of his chair and dealing with all of it again. He should also probably at least light the oil lamps, but John remained seated, too tired and too lost in dark thoughts to care about much else.

That was how Carrie found him a few hours later, brooding in the dark with nothing but the light of the fire for company. He heard her car first, and then the jingle of her keys in the lock as she let herself in. She brought with her smells of winter, snow and ice, and fresh, frigid air.

Carrie Sinclair stood just inside the door for a moment or two, waiting for him to either acknowledge her presence or send her away. When John did neither, she shut the door behind her, set her things down on his dining room table, and then joined him by the fire. She perched herself on the edge of the only other chair in the room and warmed her hands. They were red and chapped from the weather, and from what had likely been a very long shift at the Tamed Tigre, the tiny little diner/liquor store where she worked in town.

"Did you just light this? It's freezing in here," she eventually asked after several minutes of silence.

John shook his head.

"What about the one upstairs?"

"Nope."

Carrie turned in her chair ever so slightly to regard him. The dark locks of her long hair fell over her shoulder and her tan skin glistened in the firelight. She was the picture of her Polynesian heritage. Beauty like hers did not belong in rural Wisconsin. It belonged on some tropical island in the South Pacific, and certainly not in his arms. "Do you want me to?"

John had to think about that one for a moment. Lighting the fire upstairs was their secret way of implying that Carrie would be staying the night. She was giving John a choice, only he wasn't sure what he wanted. Reason suggested sending her home so he could wallow alone. The selfish part of himself, the part that craved her company, and the physical intimacy she would inevitably provide, wanted nothing more than to tell her to stay. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair, but sometimes she was the only thing that kept the nightmares away.

They always came on nights like this, when he was especially tired or agitated. And they were always the same, too - a million separate voices all calling out to him to make it stop. Begging him not to do it…

If Carrie took offense to the time it took John to make up his mind, she didn't show it, and made her way upstairs to light the fire when he finally told her to go ahead. He watched her go, wondering the entire time if he had made the right decision. He was going to be horrible company tonight, and Carrie deserved better.

She deserved a lover who was closer to her in age and had less baggage. One who wasn't so fucking selfish and could actually open up to her and talk about who he was. This thing between them had been sudden and accidental, the byproduct of a stupid one-night stand when he looked at her sideways and realized she reminded him of someone. They were both lost back then. She had just come back to Blue River to escape the city and help her elderly Aunt run the small antique store they had in town. John was still wrestling with his demons from after the war. It was a relationship of convenience she'd never asked him to define. Eddie had called them friends with benefits, once. John figured fuck buddies was more like it. It was a vulgar term, but that's really what they were. No strings, no emotional attachments. Just two consenting adults who occasionally enjoyed one another's company.

Or at least, that's what he always told himself. Carrie probably saw things a little differently and assumed they were more. And maybe they were. Maybe he did feel something for her rather than just a shared, mutual attraction. His heart was always going to belong to someone else, but maybe this thing with Carrie could be something similar.

If that was the case, then maybe he should just end it. If the USSF was going to try again, he needed to leave this place. Pack his bags and put Blue River in his rearview. He'd never meant to put down roots here, and now look at what had happened. They were anchoring him to the Earth and making it impossible for him to even entertain the idea of leaving.

Goddamn it. He'd really made a mess of things.

When Carrie finally came back down the stairs John was still in a foul mood. Rather than taking her seat by the fire again, she busied herself around the cabin, lighting oil lamps and fussing in the kitchen. There was the distinct sound of silverware, the popping open of styrofoam containers, and then…

"Is that Millie's meatloaf?" John asked, perking up in his chair.

"Of course it is. Do you want some?"

"Are you kidding?" John asked, jumping up to join Carrie in the kitchen. Though kitchen might have been too strong a word to describe the small space in one corner of the cabin. It held little more than a rusty sink, one storage cabinet, a gigantic cast iron stove, and no refrigerator. John leaned against the cabinet and watched as Carrie prepared their plates. She was at ease in his kitchen and there was evidence of her in every corner of it. From the lace curtains that framed the windows above the sink, to the little vase of dusty artificial flowers that was sitting on the countertop behind him. The chairs and table in the living room were hers as well. Even the down comforter spread across the bed upstairs had come from her.

John was yet again at a loss for how he should define the relationship he had with Carrie Sinclair. Not that it needed a label. John had never been a fan of labels anyways, which was odd for an Airman. But to label something meant to give it a name. And giving it a name made it real, and real meant someone could take it away from you. John was perfectly fine with keeping this thing they had undefined. Carrie seemed to be perfectly fine with that arrangement as well and had never told him otherwise, or pushed him for more. She gave him space when he needed it and was there for him on the nights when he didn't. His mind wandered over to all the ways he could show her just how much that meant to him later on tonight.

As if sensing his changing mood, Carrie stopped what she was doing and turned her dark eyes on him. Her features were so soft in the low light. Nothing like another face he'd long ago fallen in love with, though lovely just the same…

"Something on your mind, sailor?"

"Just the meatloaf," he lied, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore the heat steadily growing stronger somewhere in the region of his belly button.

"Then here," Carrie said, passing him a plate piled high with a steaming mound of mashed potatoes and a slice of meatloaf. But John just knocked the plate away and closed the gap between himself and Carrie in one quick step.

It was completely spontaneous and surprised them both. John didn't even realize he'd made the decision to kiss her until he was pressing her back into the sink and taking her face in his hands.

The plate she'd been holding out to him clattered onto the countertop as their lips met. Carrie melted into the kiss immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck, drawing him in closer, letting him into the space between her thighs as he used one arm to lift her from the floor and onto the edge of the sink. Need pulsed through his veins, as hot and insistent as his anger had been earlier by the woodpile. Carrie responded in kind, opening her mouth and letting him plunder, her fingertips fumbling for the buttons of his shirt.

"Carrie…" he started when they eventually separated, breathless and unsettled.

"It's ok," she promised, touching the side of his face. "I know. Whatever you need, it's ok."

John closed the space between them again and lifted Carrie off the edge of the sink. He stole the tiny gasp she gave with his mouth and fought hard against the urge to divest her of her clothes right then and there when she wrapped her legs around his middle. He carried her towards the stairs and then ran up them, Carrie holding on for dear life and giggling the entire way. He threw her down on the bed and didn't let her go again until they were both satisfied. She fell asleep against his chest shortly after, but John spent a long time awake just staring at the ceiling.

Carrie had built up a good fire and he watched the flames dance across the whitewash. He knew he was being an asshole and that she deserved so much better than this. But there was no way he could ever share his past with her, not really.

John rolled over onto his side and pulled the comforter up over his cold shoulders. Sleep would be elusive tonight, he just knew it. Even after their extracurricular activities. John tried anyway and eventually nodded off after a few hours.

If the dead visited him in his dreams that night, he didn't remember them.

John awoke the next morning with the sun, and more aches in his body than he cared to admit. Some of them were thanks to Carrie. The others were from his rage-fueled firewood session the previous evening.

Rolling over onto his other side, John was greeted by the sight of Carrie fast asleep beside him. She was on her stomach and had burrowed deep under the covers in search of warmth. It was the only downside to John's secluded life. No matter how hard they tried, or how many times during the night they got up to feed the fire, it was always freezing in his bedroom in the morning. John had gotten used to it, but Carrie still hated it and brought up that hatred every chance that she got.

Adjusting his pillows a bit, John settled back into bed and spent a few quiet moments just taking Carrie in. Memorizing the contours of her face. Preserving the sense memory of the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, just in case this was the last time they got to do this.

The thought of leaving Carrie and saying goodbye to this place was breaking his heart, though no one was ever going to be able to make him admit it.

If John did leave, if he packed his bags and disappeared to some other corner of the world, then he was going to have to do it the coward's way. Leave her a note or something, because there was no way he was going to be able to say it to her face. Goodbyes had never been an easy thing for John, and he tended to push people away so they could leave him first. It was fucked up on so many levels, and he was pretty sure he had his father to thank for that.

But John wasn't interested in thinking about his father. He was interested in Carrie and how lovely she looked asleep beside him with the long, dark tendrils of her hair splayed out over the pillow beneath her head, or the stark contrast of her perpetually tan skin against the pristine white of the linens.

Like many of the residents of Blue River, Wisconsin, Carrie Sinclair had gotten over her apprehension of John fairly quickly. He knew that was mostly because, two days after limping into town with a bum knee and hardly a dollar to his name, he'd helped the town drive out a group of vagrants that had been terrorizing the town.

Those were some dark days right after the war. The governments had collapsed, a quarter of the world's population had been wiped out, and not everyone was dealing with that fact very well. People were lost and angry, and some of them felt the best way to deal with that anger was to roam the countryside in small, unorganized gangs, terrorizing good folk who were just trying to rebuild their lives after the Wraith. With Eddie's help, and a few strong local lads, John had been able to help drive them out. And ever since, he'd been an official resident of Blue River, Wisconsin. It didn't matter that he had no past or that no one knew a thing about him beyond the fake name he'd given that first day. There were no questions asked. No demands made of him to explain why he couldn't provide a social security number. Or a driver's license for that matter. He was just John.

He often wondered what they would think of him if they knew the truth. What would happen if he woke Carrie up right now and told her everything? All the things that he had done during the war, and the secrets he'd been forced to keep... How would she react once she knew that he was responsible for all of it, all that pain, misery, and death? He imagined she would react exactly as expected, with hate and anger and derision.

It's what he would have done.

John let out a heavy sigh and Carrie stirred. She stretched a little under the covers and then blinked up at him with those impossibly dark eyes.

"Good morning," she said, still a bit groggy from sleep.

John shoved his foul mood to the side and pulled a genuine smile from somewhere deep inside. "Good morning."

Carrie returned the smile, shifting in the bed until the tips of their noses were practically touching and they were breathing the same air.

"It's cold."

"I know, I'm sorry."

Carrie's eyes were closed again and John traced the side of her face. "I could go light the fire."

"No, stay," she insisted, pushing John over onto his back so that she could settle in beside him, her head resting on his chest and their legs tangled together beneath the sheets. She was shivering a little so John wrapped his arms around her and pulled the comforter back up over her shoulders. Sometime during the night she had pulled on one of his old t-shirts and the threadbare fabric was soft against his skin.

"John, can I ask you something?" she asked after several long moments of silence.

John had nearly fallen asleep again, but his eyes snapped back open. "Depends on the question I guess."

"That man at the bar yesterday…" she began, apparently not wasting any time. "Who was he?"

John was quiet for a minute, choosing his next words very carefully. "I think he said he was a Major with the USSF."

"Is that the new name they gave to the military?" Carrie asked.

"I guess so."

"So what did he want?"

"So many questions," John replied, more than a little nervous about the direction this conversation was taking.

"Eddie told me he was talking to you about re-enlisting. I had no idea you served."

John sighed into the top of her head. "I really don't want to talk about this right now, Carrie."

She lifted her head from his chest so that she could look him straight in the eye. There was still a slight crease on her cheek from where she'd been lying on her pillow. "Why not?"

John clenched his jaw before answering, "Because that's a part of my life I'm not really interested in sharing with you at the moment, that's why."

Carrie's dark eyes flashed. "I don't think that's very fair."

"Where's all this coming from?" John demanded, beyond perturbed that she was asking all these questions. Carrie was never like this. It was one of the main reasons he let this little arrangement of theirs continue. Right now, she was breaking all the rules.

"Eddie told me all about it, John. He's worried about you. We all are."

John sat up in bed and Carrie had no choice but to follow suit. They sat glaring at each other a few feet apart on either side of the mattress. "I just want to make sure you're ok."

"I'm fine," John said matter-of-factly.

"Your woodpile would suggest otherwise." Sometimes Carrie was just too smart for her own good.

"The only thing that's bothering me right now Carrie, is the direction of our conversation."

"Why, because I'm asking you to talk to me for once in your life?"

"Yeah, that basically covers it," John snapped back and Carrie's face colored slightly in her anger.

"You know, we've been doing… whatever this is," she began, gesturing towards the bed, "for a long time, John, and I've never once asked you about your past. Not once. The least you could do is afford me the courtesy of telling me who that man was in the bar yesterday and what he wanted from you."

"What does it matter? He's gone!"

"It matters because you can't seem to answer one simple question!"

John turned away from her and swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to rein in his growing anger as he retrieved his boxers from the floor. She was pushing him towards the edge of something, something big, a line in the sand he wasn't ready to think about yet. One he never imagined she'd ever even ask him to consider. Did he let it all out and tell her everything? Or keep it inside and drive her away. She was making him choose and she didn't even know it.

Carrie climbed over the bed to where he sat and threw her arms around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, ok," she whispered, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

John released a shaky breath and leaned into her.

"Besides," she smiled, kissing the side of his neck. "People in town have their own theories about you anyway."

"Oh yeah?"

"Eileen's is my favorite."

John forced a smile at the mention of Carrie's elderly aunt. "Now this I gotta hear."

Carrie let go of his shoulders and sat down behind him. "She told me once she thinks you're some billionaire who lost your entire family in The Great Culling and decided to run away from home and live out the remainder of your days in squalor because you think losing your family is a punishment from God for how you wasted your money."

"She thinks I live in squalor?" John asked over his shoulder, laughing. "Nice to know what she really thinks of me."

"Keep in mind this theory was one she came up with way back when you first arrived. I think it's pretty safe to say her opinion of you has changed."

"Any other rumors I should know?"

"Davie has a theory," Carrie said quietly.

"Of course he does," John muttered. Davie worked at the gas station in town and just so happened to be head over heels in love with Carrie.

"He seems to think you're one of those escaped convicts they were talking about on the news after the war ended."

"What ever gave him that idea?"

"I guess you signed off on some invoice with the name John Sheppard instead of John Evans," she replied. "He figured if you needed to change your name then maybe you were on the run from the law or something."

John studied a patch of sunlight that had appeared on the floorboards near his feet. They were on dangerous ground again. "And what about you? What's your theory."

Carrie was silent behind him for a very long time. So long, in fact, John nearly turned around to make sure she was still there. Her warmth at his back told him she still was.

"I used to think that you were just a man looking for a fresh start," she began tentatively, her voice breaking a little. "For a long time that was enough for me. But now, after talking to Eddie and the boys about what happened yesterday, I think that maybe you were a soldier in the war and that you had a really good reason for leaving the service and changing your name. I also think you've been running for a very long time and that your past finally caught up with you in that bar yesterday."

John didn't know what to say. She was tearing open his chest and ripping out his heart.

"But what I know is that the people in this town love you and would do everything in their power to protect you. No matter who you are or what might have happened in your past."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you knew what I'd done."

A warm hand reached out to touch his back. John wanted to pull from it, but forced himself to stay absolutely still. Anxiety coiled itself inside his belly like a snake. She was pushing him towards that edge again.

"Then tell me," Carrie all but whispered, "and let me decide for myself."

His anxiety seemed to switch to anger in the blink of an eye as John leapt from the bed. "Jesus Christ, Carrie! I told you I didn't want to talk about it!"

It might have been the first time he'd actually raised his voice to her and she visibly blanched.

"How can I help you if you won't fucking talk to me!?"

"What good would it do? Dredging all that shit up?"

"Maybe if you talked about it for once, instead of bottling it all up, it would help you!"

"Nothing is going to help me, Carrie. This isn't something you can fix." John's face was hot with rage, his hands tight fists at his sides.

"How the hell would you know, you've never even tried!"

"You don't need to hear about this shit, Carrie!" John yelled. "About what they did to me, what they forced me to do…" John snapped his mouth shut. His anger was making him stupid.

Carrie got off of the bed and started walking towards him. "Carrying all of that around inside of you is toxic, John. I know. I saw it with my dad when he came back from Iraq. He refused to talk to any of us and it destroyed him. I'm offering you a chance to avoid that fate. Face the past with someone you trust. Someone who l-loves you."

John's eyes snapped up to meet Carrie's, all the color draining from his face. "Don't."

She took a small, tentative step closer. "Don't what? Tell you I love you?"

John tried to back up but he was already at the window. "How could you love me? You don't even know me."

Carrie froze. "And who's fucking fault is that, John Sheppard?"

John closed his eyes, filling his chest with as deep a breath as he could manage to keep from putting a fist through the window behind him. It was the worst thing she could have done, using that name against him, not understanding how hard he'd fought to separate himself from it.

It was all a mistake. One giant, goddamn mistake. Eddie, Carrie... he never should have let them in. He'd made a pact with himself long ago: no more innocent civilians, no more collateral damage. And at the first opportunity, he'd forsaken that oath. Well not anymore. John knew what he had to do.

"I think you should leave."

"No," Carrie replied, shaking her head. "Don't do that, John."

But it was already done, she just didn't know it yet. "Get the fuck out of my house, Carrie."

She was starting to cry now, tears welling in her eyes and then rolling down her red cheeks. "Don't do this to us."

Carrie took a step toward him, but John put out a hand to stop her. If he touched her now, there was a very real chance he wouldn't go through with this.

"There is no us," he said forcefully, more to keep his resolve than in actual anger and Carrie shrank away from him. "Get out."

She stood there for a moment or two like she was about to argue. But then the light seemed to diminish from her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she looked away. Without another word, she bent to retrieve her clothes from the bedroom floor and pull them on.

When she was done, John watched her walk away from where he stood by the window, hardly daring to breathe. He kept repeating to himself over and over again that it was better this way. The heartache of today would save her from the pain of knowing him, the real John Sheppard.

Carrie paused at the top of the stairs to look back over at him one last time, her hand resting on the banister he'd carved himself from a fallen tree limb they'd found together in the woods. She wasn't crying anymore, in fact, she seemed to be looking at him with something akin to pity in her dark eyes.

"I really do love you, John," she said just loud enough for him to hear before turning around and disappearing down the stairs.

When the front door of the cabin banged shut so hard he heard the little window at its center break, John slid down the wall to sit on the frigid floor and bury his face in his hands.