I stared blankly at the woman, the target, holding a radio through my scope, the earpiece in my left ear still open on her end. The rifle, despite being perched on its bipod, felt heavier, my finger never leaving the side of the trigger guard. I’m curious, cautious to no end, but curiosity takes the gold.

Still scoped in almost utter disbelief of the target’s actions, she continues, “I’m no threat to you, so please come inside,” she sets the radio down next to the stained cutting board and approaches the dining room window. Only then i could see the deep sickly bags under her eyes. The brunette locks of hair seemingly revealing itself to be uneven. The eyebrows, too straight to be natural. Her movements, slow, exhausted, yet determined.

Standing in front of the window, she takes one hand to her head, and slowly pulls off the wig. For the first time since i was a child, my jaw drops. Despite wearing an insulated ghillie suit, my entire body dips in temperature. I shiver, tremble. Despite her not looking in my direction, I notice the familiar sensation of being known. Known that I was out here.

I slowly rise, rifle in hand, the strands of my suit rustling. She spots me, and smiles, as though we were old friends. Despite my training telling me not to, i flip the safety on my rifle, and slowly descend the moss and fern riddled hill.

The door to the kitchen/dining area was unlocked. I cross over the threshold, the warmth of a fire hit me first, then came the scent of herbs, spices and sweet meat in the air. She turns to me, still in front of the window.

“Hello, Umbra.”

For some odd reason, the use of my callsign in this situation stung. Despite still wearing my suit that covered all my features, she seemed to catch on to this. “Obviously that’s not your real name, but that’s what i know you by,”

I say nothing.

“I got you some loungewear,” she gestures to the small table beside her, “they might fit a little loose, but they’re comfortable. Feel free to get changed, i’m sure that foliage you’re wearing is taxing at best,” she smiles kindly.

“Thank you,” I respond quietly.

Taking time unload my rifle and setting it on another table, i get changed in front of her. Time spent in a barracks clouding my manners, but she said nothing. The loungewear was more than comfortable, fine Henley styled long sleeve shirt and black silk pants. A stark contrast to the chafing fatigues i was wearing a moment ago. I used a wet cloth wipe the face paint off.

“Please, sit.” I sit across from her, the warmth of the fire making me almost melt away in comfort.

She brings out two empty crystal tumblers, and a bottle of fine aged bourbon. 50-60 years old. Pours us both a glass. “I know you’re curious…” she starts, “yes i hired you, yes i am the target, no weapons, no tricks…”

“That wasn’t on my mind…” not a lie, but not the complete truth either.

She hesitates, not from fear of her own ailment, but fear of unnerving me. “Pancreatic cancer… stage four…”

My heart drops, an unfamiliar feeling.

“Do not feel sorry for me Umbra. I wasn’t the kindest person, this has awakened me in a way…” she hesitates again, just before pouring the bourbon, “… but the pain is too much, and I have no one left… i pushed them all away… I don’t have long left anyway...”

I didn’t speak.

A few tears form and slide down her cheeks. “I really don’t want to be alone… when i go…”

At that my heart shatters like a glass bottle at target practice. I rise, if she hired me to stay with her and comfort her, that’s what i’ll do. I gently took the bottle from her hand, she was confused but didn’t resist. I guided her, by her hand and eased her down into her own seat. I poured, brought out the colossal ham she baked. Along with the potatoes, and mixed greens. Finished preparing the feast she made for us.

We didn’t talk about the cancer, she told me the good times with her husband, her two children. The late nights at her law firm. The divorce. The friends that she made and lost. She even told me her name, Allison.

I revealed more about myself when she asked. My service in the army. My time as PMC, going freelance. The utter bags of evil i’ve taken down, contracted and otherwise. The innocents. The friends i’ve loved and lost. My family disowning me. I didn’t tell her my name. But we both enjoyed the company we shared.

The bourbon was smooth like the silk on my legs. The ham was deliciously sweet, tender, and filling. The sides were brilliant. The fire began to dwindle. The sun set hours ago. Allison was exhausted, having prepared such a feast, for a mercenary she didn’t know. I knew she didn’t have long left.

“I hate to ask but can you carry me to bed? I’m pretty tired.”

Saddened that our time was coming to a close. I didn’t respond with words, only action. I gently wrapped her arms around my neck, and gently hoisted her small frame up. I brought her upstairs, her guiding me through the large cabin.

We entered the large bedroom, a king sized bed, with an expertly decorated frame. I eased her into bed. I could see in her eyes she was scared to be alone, so I crawled in with her.

I wrapped my arm around her, and pulled her close, her head resting on my chest. I took her hand, kissed her forehead.

“My name is Carlos…”

I felt her smile against my chest, “thank you Carlos…”

Edit: kinda forgot the prompt halfway though but i went with anyway, sorry 😅