I Leave It Open

“Check the fuel line. It’s leaking.”

Amy didn’t look up from the stove. She was wedged between the iron burner and the stone wall, her knees drawn tight to keep the damp out of her suit. The hut was small, a square of warmth in a white void, smelling of wet wool and kerosene. Simon stood over her, blocking the weak light from the single window. He was bigger than she remembered, or perhaps the years had just filled out the frame she’d known when they were twenty. His shoulders stretched the heavy canvas of his work jacket, and his hands, rough and mapped with old scars, rested on the back of the chair she wasn’t using. He didn’t move. He just watched her, his eyes dark and steady, taking in the way she shivered before she could hide it.

“Is that a suggestion?” she asked, wiping grease on her thigh.