The next day, after a quick refresher course, we move on to live ammo in a rifle.

Within the first few minutes, you've ricocheted a round off the ground at my feet.

"Holy shit, Meera! What'd I say about the safety?!" I bark.

You quail a bit, then surge back and answer sharply, "I'm sorry! It was an accident! My finger brushed - "

"I told you not to mess with the safety, didn't I?"

"Yes, but - "

"No buts! Just..." I forcibly exhale, and cradle my head with my hand. "Just...give me a minute."

You lay the gun down on the blanket and stalk off without a word, posture tense as hell, and disappear around the corner of the hangar.

I'm tense as hell, too. Motherfuck, I told you not to touch the safety. That was not a tall order. Rookies and greenhorns and jarheads the world over manage to obey that order, and they haven't got a career mercenary teaching them.

But you've never held a gun in your life until the day before.

I sigh again, a hair less forcibly. I'm calming down, now, and starting to feel guilty. Did I mess up and get loose? I look back over it in my mind's eye, and see no indication that I gave you mixed commands. You've been very good at executing the short phrases of gun drills quickly and with relative precision. Have I moved you too far, too fast into this?

The third time I sigh, the guilt has settled in to stay. For lack of something better, I reach down, pick up the offending rifle, and cycle the bolt. The casing ejects, and I pick it up, bouncing it in my palm. This morning went from sunshine and rainbows to gloom and hurricanes in less than a minute. Was I out of line just now, or was it justifiable having just narrowly escaped being reduced to nine toes? I rub my temples yet again. Fuck me.

You aren't anywhere in the house or outside the hangar, so that leaves one place. I climb the steps into the plane, and meander to the cockpit. "Meera, you there?"

No answer, but I can sense you like trouble hiding in a bush. I stop short of the cockpit, and lean against the emergency hatch. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. It was an accident, I know that. You're new at this, and I've never taught anyone this much in so short a time. I pushed you too fast, and I'm sorry."

I hear a shifting in the cockpit, and you lean between the seats to look at me. Your eyes are misty, and for the first time in almost two weeks, I see you vulnerable.

Damn it. I feel awful now. "Hey, don't cry. It's not worth tears." I swing into the seat next to you, feet in the aisle, and swipe at the first tear to fall. "Don't cry, please?"

You sniffle, and won't meet my gaze. "I'm so sorry, Barney."

If I felt awful before, I feel like a royal prick now. "It's okay, it's okay."

"I nearly shot you," you say in a wrecked voice.

I turn your face towards me with a palm cupping your wet cheek, and wait until you open your eyes to say, "What's one foot? I got two, and a spare in the closet."

You half sniffle, half laugh at that. You cover my hand with yours, and my thumb reflexively obliterates the tear that slides close to it. The crying has lessened to a few shudders, but the tears still fall.

You think yourself guilty of anything wrong that happens to you. It makes sense, the more I think about it, because you're always pushing yourself to do it right, do it perfect. Your reasoning is that if you're perfect at everything, nothing bad will happen to you. I pray I didn't breed this monster.

"You don't deserve to cry, or feel bad," I say, trying so hard to find the right words that will stem the tide.

You're still holding my hand to your waterfall face, but don't answer. You're locked in.

If I don't stop the guilt train, it'll run you over. I couldn't take it if my idiocy set you back.

Okay, time for a Hail Mary.

I shift forward, wriggle one hand behind you in the seat and the other under your knees, and lift. You gasp, your eyes fly open, and you grab ahold of my shirt in shock. I settle back into my seat, this time, with you in my lap.

I haven't held you close in several days, and I think the lack of contact has weighed on both of us subconsciously. It's almost as though we built our entire relationship on the premise of strong arms to shield a hurting heart, and although the worst has passed, the heart still hurts. It is so easy to forget that.

My arms will always be strong, though. As long as you need them.

I am falling for you.

It feels like a the smallest of impacts belying the biggest sensations: like the warhead rounds of Ceasar's AA12 shotgun. Five little words echoing in my skull, and my heart starts to shred: the fortress I've built around myself spinning apart like a sandcastle in a tornado.

No, I can't take that. Not now.

I shove it back down, and it feels like a plastic buoy in water: no matter how far I push it, it always bobs back up.

There. Locked up tight. Until next time, at least. But the vaccuum it leaves in my chest is almost as bad.

You curl in my lap like a child, and eventually the crying abates. But it's a long time before either of us makes a move. This feels like home, holding you. It feels natural and needed and right. I swear to myself I'll never go so long without hugging you tight again.

"Hey," I say finally. "At least you were holding it in safety mode."

You breath is hot through my shirt as you huff. "Big load of good that did."

I can tell by your tone that you're okay now, you're out of the woods. "Hungry?"

You lean up and pin me with your humorous eyes. "I'm always hungry, Barney," you say longsufferingly.

I give your hair one last stroke, and help you get to your feet. You then give me a hand to mine, and I follow you out of the plane.

You're brushing your shoulder-length hair almost obsessively and watching the clock as night falls. I text Tool to see if the guys have come in to roost yet, and he texts back that everyone's there but Ceasar's waiting on us.

"It's all gonna fall out," I tease you.

You stick out your tongue at me. "We game yet?"

"Yep. Let's saddle up."

You grin and pull on your leather jacket, grab your helmet from under your bed, and lace your boots. You're actually ready faster than me, which should indicate something's wrong with me. A man taking longer than a female? The world tilts on its axis.

"Excited?" I ask. I can't help it: I love hearing you voice what you're feeling, for better or worse, because I'm the only one who gets to hear it. I'm the only one who gets to have you pressed against his back while he rides, too. I love that almost as much.

Damn, there's that l-word again.

"A little nervous," you conceed, settling behind me with your knees cradling my hips. Hell, yeah, that's mine.

Damn, no, that is not mine. That, and everything attached to that, is firmly off limits, brain.

Damn, again. I need to be around the boys tonight, or I might do something crazy like reach down and test the firmness of that calf muscle...

Double, triple, quadruple damn it. I'm gonna lose my mind. "Let's go."

I occupy my hands and mind with the bike. The handlebars vibrate comfortingly. The moon is full, and it seems closer tonight, somehow. Like it's come down further in the sky to watch the humans play at night like moths under its glow.

I'm running from that insistent buoy bobbing in my heart, but I don't care. My pride reminds me I've never run from anything in my life, but I don't care. I twist the throttle and revel in the bike's obedient leap forward. You whoop behind me and laugh: I can feel it against my spine.

I grin, not caring if I catch bugs. It's gonna be a great night.

I rumble into the small shop, picking my buds out of the light of the neons in the widow. Yin Yang, Gunnar, and Toll Road are kicking it at the self-serve bar, and Christmas is throwing knives at the wooden tribal face on the wall. I find my gut a little tight, even though the ambient mood is our usual good-natured jabs and rejoinders. Classic rock streams from the radio, giving space to listen to Foreigner's 'Double Vision' and room to talk at the same time.

"'Bout time you got here," says Christmas, striding over to bump my fist. "Ceasar's like a waiting prom date."

"'Ey, man! This tat is symbolic of who I am!" protests Ceasar from the tattooing chair, where Tool is prepping his skin for the ink. "Ya'll need to be here, to witness it."

"Yeah, witness your unnatural relationship with that razor," I reply. I heel the kickstand down close to the chair holding my strongest friend, whose acres of muscles can barely fit on the thing.

"Seriously, C, get a woman," Toll Road snickers from his barstool.

"Oh, look who's talkin'...!"

"Tool, what's happenin'?" I ask, grinning at the weathered looking artist.

"Not much, man," Tool says in his post-joint voice. Looking past me, he nods. "Who's your friend?"

"Tool, this is Meera." I say simply. I leave the rest to you.

You finish sliding off the bike and remove your helmet, shaking out your short hair. "Tool, eh? I've heard a lot about you."

The artist's bleach blonde streaks catch the light as he cocks his head at you, grinning like the womanizer he can't help being. "Good things, I hope."

You give just the right amount of shrug and smile. "Mostly."

"She's been warned, Tool, watch out," says Gunnar.

"I'm pretty sure the whole state got that alert," picks up Christmas, flinging a knife. "'We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an emergency alert: An utter Tool has been sighted harassing women of all types...'"

"Still get more tail than you in a week, buddy," snarks Tool, shooting ink into the gun.

The trio at the bar, myself, and you all chuckle and "Ohhh!" at the zing.

So far, so good. They're not all lasered in on you. Christmas must be running interference when I'm not around.

You grin Christmas's way, which he salutes with a knife. Then, to my surprise, you walk over to the three at the bar. That was unexpected. From their expressions, I reckon you've leveled your smile at them. "Hello," you say with the optimal amount of Nepali thickener. "We've not been formally introduced. My name is Meera..."

I'm a little stunned, but let you go to town. I actually feel a slightly naked without you next to me. It both warms and bugs me that you don't feel the same. Ah, what am I thinking? You're not mine. Good for you, stepping out there. I shake it off and tune in to Ceasar and Tool's conversation.

"Open, like this," says Ceasar, holding the infamous straight razor with the blade slightly open to show the inscription of his name. "Right shoulder."

"Nah, nah, it's gotta be like this," urges Tool, reorienting the blade to an upside-down V, on the left shoulder. "It's unique."

"Whadda you think, Barney?" asks Ceasar.

I'm only half-listening to the conversation in front of me. The other half is listening to you try to wrap your tongue around Yin Yang's real name.

"This is why I catch so much crap," the Asian moans. "Name, height, race, all of it."

You laugh. "At least you can't be called Bigfoot like Gunnar, here."

"Hey!" protests the Swede with a laugh. He already likes you, I can tell. Although he's cleaning up his act (off the drugs, into school of all things), he's still not the type of guy to just let a woman tease him and get away without a zing of her own: especially a woman he can't sleep with.

"Whadda think, Barney?" prods Ceasar. "I need an honest inked man's opinion."

I eye the prepped, chocolate-colored canvas of Ceasar's back. "I wouldn't do it on your back."

Both Tool and Ceasar frown and say simultaneously, "You wouldn't?"

"Nope," I say, grinning. "I'd do it here," I make a slashing motion just under my shirt collar. "Open, with the lettering, life-sized."

Tool is taken by the idea, but it's not his skin. "C?"

Ceasar is holding the razor up to his chest, eyeing the mirror. "Barney, you're a genius."

"Thanks, buddy. I'll remind you of that next time we have a repeat of Bolivia."

"Ouch. I thought we all swore on our mother's graves not to repeat Bolivia."

"Alright big guy, flip over," urges Tool, putting on his readers. In seconds, the tattooing gun is humming.

As I walk over to Christmas, who is retrieving his blade from the eye of the tribal face, I check back in with you long-distance.

"T. S. Elliot had to mean a lizard!" You're insisting. "'Come in under the shadow of this red rock.' Wouldn't that suggest a desert gecko?"

Gunnar sips his beer and replies avidly, "To me, it makes me think of a human-sized cave, not a little lizard's bolt hole."

Okay, so you've moved on to...poetry? I didn't even know I owned any poetry books. It's not something I thought I'd hear my men engaging in discussions about, either. But then, they've never talked with a whippish little Nepali who's been shacking with their leader. They don't know the full horror of what happened in that hut I carried you out of. Only Christmas and I actually laid eyes on you. Maybe you're enjoying being around somebody who doesn't know. It's like a fresh start.

Christmas bumps our shoulders and turns to raise the knife in his hand showily. "Having fun yet?"

"Yeah," I say, finding that I mean it. I step back once to give him room. "How's Lacy?" He and his girl have had over a month under the same roof, even though they've been a thing for eight months, and I'm expecting trouble in paradise.

His arm blurrs, flinging a silver flash faster than my eye can track. He chews on his answer until he returns with the blade. "It's wierd. But not bad-wierd."

"Good-wierd?" I urge with a smirk. "Why'd you call me from your ranch range?"

"A few weeks ago? Mate, I'm in love: I can't get slack on target practice."

"So she gets that your job ain't nice?"

"Yeah, she gets it. She may struggle with the time I have to give it, but she gets it. This month off has helped." His knife imbeds itself again. "You ever realize something was missing, only when it shows itself?" he asks abstractly.

"Like reaching for a gun that ain't there," I say with understanding.

"Yeah, exactly. You don't know it's gone until it clobbers you over the head. And then it's like, there it is!"

I'm nodding, and instinctively, my eyes flash to you. It seems you made the fatal error of asking Toll Road about his cauliflower ear, and are now reaping what you sow. "I know what you mean."

Christmas glances at me, then over to you, and back. "How are you?" he asks quieter.

I sigh, feeling that plastic buoy rising up again. "You don't miss a thing, do ya?"

He grins in a way that eases my burden. "Not much. Feel like a smoke break?"

"Yeah."

We walk into the narrow one-lane that Tool's shop sits on. The street is empty, save for the neon forest in the shop's window competing with the moon's luminous gaze.

I light up my cigar, but Christmas doesn't smoke. He just likes to keep the smokers company. "You know what this is, right?" he asks. He means the angst he sees written between my lines.

I blow out my frustration along with my lungful. "I've got a feeling." There's a lot to read between those lines in particular, but Lee's my best friend. He speaks fluent Barney Ross.

Christmas nods. "You're a man, she's a woman, and you've got a bond. What's stopping you?"

"You saw her that night in Nepal, Christmas. She's got a lot more healing left that has nothing to do with her body."

He looks into the shop with me, where you're making a 'nasty' face over your first American beer (to the hilarity of my men). "She seems to be making strides in the right directions. Has she said or done anything to imply you're not welcome?"

"I don't even know if she feels the same." I wrack my brain, and only snap back to reality when hot ash hits my hand. "No," I reply grudgingly. "But that don't mean - "

"Mean what? That she can make her own decisions? Guage her own feelings? Evaluate her own choices, like a big girl?"

I shift my boots and grit my teeth, but I know he's right.

"Just because she got raped, doesn't mean she's incapable of loving you," states Christmas clearly but sympathetically. "You're trying to cage her in according to what you think she is, and what you think she should be feeling at this stage. But she's not bound to anyone's calendar but her own."

"She's constantly surprising me," I murmur in agreement. "Every time I turn around, she's picked up something new, and turned some fresh corner. The very fact that she wanted to come tonight is a good example."

"Seeing the blokes she last saw when she was covered in blood, bruises, and pilfered clothes takes guts. What's she trying to say with that?"

I don't reply to Lee's rhetoric, but I find that when he answers, his words resound through my entire body. The answer rises from the depths of me and coats the very stratosphere of my soul, like a nuclear mushroom cloud.

"She's trying to say that she's tough enough to take you on, Barney."