Page 94 of Lawless Rivals

While she sleeps, I get dressed and run a hand down my face, exhausted and fucking wound tight.

The door opens with a low moan, and I step out into the crisp morning air that fogs as I breathe out.

Behind thin clouds, the sun pushes up over the fields in a slow, steady blush of orange.

This is a view that never gets old. Peacefulness spreads for miles, and the openness gives me room to breathe.

Concealed by old metal sheeting, the rusty generator sits under shelter. I head into the woodshed, gather a few tools, then crouch beside it, checking the stubborn fucker and fiddling until I find the fault and fix it.

I leave it running and head back inside where it’s not much warmer.

Sticking to routine, I light the gas ring with a couple of turns and a click and warm my hands with a few rubs.

There are tins stacked in the cupboard above the counter, same as always. A stash of food that keeps for months.

I grab one, pull it open and empty the contents into the pan, the smell of baked beans and sausages filling the space as it warms.

Once it’s ready, I stand to eat, leaning against the counter with the pan in one hand and a fork in the other, watching the duvet rise and fall where she sleeps.

I could wake her with a kiss and a mug of coffee.

For a second, I almost do.

But she’s not permanent in my life. That’s how it needs to stay, no matter how easily that line blurs when she’s beside me.

I leave most of it in the pan for her, cover the top with foil, set it aside, and go back outside before I get any more pointless urges.

The shower’s nothing more than a pipe rigged up beside the woodshed, fed from a tank of rainwater. I strip off and stand under it, holding my breath as icy water trickles over my shoulders and down my spine.

A worn-down bar of soap sits where it always does. I work it into a lather, wash, and rinse, then reach into the plastic container for a towel to dry off.

The light breeze does half the job for me before I drag my shirt back on.

I hang the towel over the line in the shed, then reach for my smokes and head inside.

She’s awake now, hair ruffled from sleep and eyes all over my wet scuff.

“You can wash outside after breakfast,” I tell her.

I point to the pan of beans before grabbing my jacket and backing out to give her space, lighting a cigarette as I go.

The first drag fills my lungs and I cough, leaning against the side of the mobile to watch clouds pass over the sun.

From inside, I hear the scrape of metal and, without thinking it through, I peer inside, watching her eat from the pan.

It shouldn’t stir anything in me, but I track her movements anyway. The sight of her holds my attention for longer than the scenery ever could.

She sets the pan on the counter, slips on her boots, and comes outside to join me.

“Where’s the washing facilities?” she asks, teasing a lock of hair stuck in her lashes.

Oh, she’s gonna love this.

“Right this way.”

I lead her to the makeshift shower and flip the lever to release the water.

“There’s soap on the shelf, and if you’re lucky, I’ll even bring ya a clean towel.”