It’s been a very long time since I woke up somewhere comfortable. When I open my eyes I find myself in a deep pile of blankets and coverlets. There is warm sun filtering through the window. Birds are singing outside. I’m home.

Well, in a home, anyway.

It feels like a lifetime since I woke up in a place like this. In a lot of ways, it literally was. I think the last time I woke up feeling this way, I was probably in my early teens.

After lying there for a while, orienting myself to the world, I get out of bed and go to the kitchen. Some things are habit. Even in strange new places where you don’t really know the way you can still follow the smell.

Tom is up already, and cooking. The clock on the wall says it’s 10.00 am. I must have slept for half a day at least. I do feel a bit better for it though.

“Hey.”

Seeing Tom makes me happy and gives me heartache at the same time. I miss Ken.

“Good morning, young lady,” he says. “I made pancakes.”

The young lady makes me think I’m in trouble. Then I remember that I don’t get in trouble anymore. I left the man who can tell me I’m in trouble behind in Afghanistan.

I sit down and consume the pancakes, trying not to check Tom out too much. Today he’s wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, brown slacks. His hair is slightly damp from the shower, curling more than ever. Gives him a roguish appearance as he flips the last few pancakes, the muscles in his forearm rippling with the motions of spatula and pan.

The pancakes are really good. He knows how to make them light enough to absorb just the right amount of syrup. And there’s hot chocolate too, not coffee. It’s all really good and comforting and I’m almost starting to believe it’s real.

Except, it can’t be real. I can’t possibly be here safe and sound, eating pancakes when there’s people back in the desert. Where Ken is. Getting shot at. Wearing the smell of death.

The memory almost makes me gag. I put my fork down and push the plate away.

“Not hungry?” Tom’s brow lifts the same damn way Ken’s does.

“I’ve had enough, thank you. It was nice.”

I’m trying to be as polite as I can, even as the dark thoughts come rushing in. I don’t deserve this place. This comfort. I don’t deserve these pancakes. I don’t deserve a damn thing.

“What’s on your mind?”

He asks the question gently. I don’t want to answer it. He doesn’t need to know. Better he doesn’t.

“Mary,” he says, his voice going a little deeper. “You were happy at first. What happened?”

“I remembered.”

“What did you remember?”

“Everything.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Okay. Well. You and I need to have a conversation.”

I don’t want to have any conversations. I want to run. Really far. So far nobody can find me.

“Thanks for the pancakes,” I say. “I’m going to get my things and go.”

“Why?” He looks genuinely confused, reminding me that he’s a civilian.

“Because I don’t want to be your problem,” I sigh. “I was Ken’s problem, and I made everything worse. I might even have gotten some people killed. Bad things happen to me. And worse things happen to people who get involved with me. So I’m going to go.”

“Some bad things might happen to you, sure,” he counters. “And some bad things might happen to other people, but that doesn’t mean you’re the cause. And I’m not afraid of what might happen.”

“That’s because you don’t know what’s happened to me. You don’t know where I’ve been, or who I’ve been involved with. Not even Ken knows. I went through some stuff. And then I went through some more stuff, and then I ran into Ken. And he sent me here. If you can think of a bad place or a bad person, I promise you I’ve been there and I’ve met them. Nobody really knows who I am, Tom. Not even Ken. Especially not Ken.”

I’m being more honest than I’ve ever been with anyone. Tom’s eyes never leave mine. He’s listening. Intently listening. And he doesn’t seem to be afraid, even though he really should be. Because Ken wasn’t saving me from the dangers of Afghanistan when he sent me away. He was just exporting the danger. Right into this cozy little haven, where I know I don’t belong, and into the life of this man who I can already tell is too good for me.

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” he agrees when I stop talking. “Maybe you’ll tell me some of it sometime. But that doesn’t mean you need to leave. And it doesn’t mean I’ll let you.” He says the last part with a smile, leaning casually on the counter. His words could be interpreted as threatening, if it weren’t for his demeanor.

“I was safer in Afghanistan. That’s the truth,” I say. “I got out of… the place I was in, and then I went and did some things with some people. I owe money. I owe blood. I was a very bad girl, Tom. In ways you don’t understand.”