Chapter 20: See the space between the big rock and the oak sapling
The tension in the room shifted, the grim logistics of the supply run creating a strange, new common ground. The unspoken agreement hung between them: they would find a way to manage the risk, because the alternative, a complete return to isolation within the same four walls, was suddenly unthinkable for both of them.
Nate swung his legs out of bed, the moment of raw vulnerability gone, replaced by his usual pragmatic efficiency. He pulled on his pants and stood, looking down at Skylar.
"The supply run," he said, crossing his arms. "It's not a stroll. If we're doing this, you need to be more than a passenger. You said you were an archer. I need to see it."
Skylar sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "I'm good. I took down those Rippers in the parking lot, didn't I?"
"From a stationary position, with a clear line of sight, while they were focused on me," he countered, his tone flat. "That's target practice. Out there," he jerked his head towards the hidden door, "it's moving targets, through brush, in bad light, with your heart trying to jump out of your throat. 'Good' gets you killed. I need to know if you're an asset or a liability."
She bristled, a flash of the old, entitled Skylar surfacing. "I'm not a liability. Pierce paid a fortune for the best private lessons in the Hamptons."
Nate almost laughed, a harsh, short sound. "The Hamptons? You think shooting at straw bales on some billionaire's estate has anything to do with putting a arrow through a Ripper's eye socket while it's charging you? That's the problem with you people. You think money buys competence. It doesn't. It just buys the illusion of it."
"Then what does buy it, huh?" she shot back, standing up now, facing him. "What, you just emerged from the womb knowing how to survive the apocalypse?"
"No," he said, his voice dropping, becoming dangerously quiet. "I learned it by paying attention. By understanding that the world wasn't a playground. While you were getting private lessons, I was fixing the leaking pipes and faulty wiring in the buildings where you had those lessons. I saw the weak points. I learned how things actually work. So yeah, I'm going to test you. Right now."
"Now?"
"Now. Get dressed. Get your bow."
He turned and started gathering a few empty cans from a shelf. Skylar stared at his back, a mixture of indignation and anxiety churning in her stomach. She dressed quickly, the comfort of the cabin already feeling conditional.
Outside, in the filtered light of the clearing, Nate had set up a crude course. He'd placed a can on a moss-covered log about thirty yards away. Another was wedged in the crook of a tree, partially obscured by leaves. A third he hung from a branch with a piece of string, making it sway slightly.
"Alright, 'Hampton's Best'," he said, his arms crossed. "The one on the log. Now."
She nocked an arrow, took a breath, and let it fly. Thwip. The arrow struck the log just inches to the left of the can, quivering.
"Too slow. You over-thought it," Nate said, no emotion in his voice. "The one in the tree."
She aimed, the leaves making it difficult to find a clean line. She fired. The arrow clipped a branch and veered wildly off course, disappearing into the undergrowth.
"Damn it!" she hissed.
"You're fighting the forest," he stated. "You're not part of it. You're trying to impose your perfect, clean shot on a messy, complicated world. It doesn't work like that. You have to use the environment. The gaps. The angles. You don't have to hit dead center; you have to hit something vital. Speed and a gut shot is better than a perfect aim and a miss because you took too long."
He walked over to the hanging can and set it swinging in a wider arc. "Now this one. Don't aim for the can. Aim for the path it's going to take."
Frustrated, her face flushed, she drew again. She tracked the swinging can, trying to lead it. She released. The arrow sailed through the empty space where the can had been a second before.
"You're anticipating. You're guessing. You have to know," he said, his voice relentless. "It's physics. Rhythm. Breathe with its swing. Become a part of its motion."
He was In his element now, the teacher, the critic, the man who understood systems. "Again."
She shot again. And again. And again. She missed more than she hit. With each failure, Nate offered a terse, precise critique. "Your stance is too rigid." "You're plucking the string, not releasing it cleanly." "You're holding your breath."
It was Infuriating. It was exhausting. But slowly, under his unyielding pressure, she started to listen. She stopped trying to recreate the perfect range and started trying to see the forest through his eyes, not as an obstacle, but as a tool.
On her tenth try at the swinging can, she took a breath, felt the rhythm of its arc, and let the arrow go almost as an extension of her own exhale.
Thwack.
The arrow struck the can, punching through the thin metal with a satisfying clang.
She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, a surge of genuine triumph washing over her.
Nate didn't smile. But he gave a single, slow nod. "Better. That's one. Now, let's see you do it when you're out of breath and I'm screaming that something's coming up behind you."
The lesson, she understood, was far from over. But for the first time, it felt less like an accusation and more like an investment. He wasn't just testing her; he was, in his own harsh, unemotional way, trying to keep her alive. And that, in this world, was a form of care she had almost forgotten existed.
The small victory hung In the air for a moment, a fragile thing. Skylar couldn't help a small, proud smile, her shoulders relaxing from their tense hunch. She looked at Nate, searching for a glimmer of shared accomplishment.
"That was good, right?" she said, her voice lighter than it had been in days. "I actually listened. I got it."
Nate watched the still-swinging can, the arrow lodged firmly in its side. "It was adequate," he said, his tone neutral. "It means you can learn. That's the most important thing."
The warmth In her chest cooled slightly. Adequate. Not 'good'. Certainly not 'great'.
"Can you show me?" she asked, pushing a little, trying to bridge the gap. "The way you move, the way you see the gaps… can you show me how you do it?"
For a brief second, something flickered in his eyes, not warmth, but a spark of professional interest. He was a craftsman, and she was asking about his craft. He took the bow from her, his hands familiar and sure on the weapon.
"Your problem is you're fighting your own body," he said, nocking an arrow with a fluid motion that was entirely different from her deliberate movements. "You're trying to be a statue. You need to be water." He didn't even seem to aim at the same swinging can. He drew and released in one seamless motion. Thwip. Thwack. The arrow struck the can's other side, stopping its swing dead.
He pointed to a cluster of ferns twenty yards away. "See the space between the big rock and the oak sapling? A clear lane. If something was moving through there, you wouldn't aim at it. You'd aim for the lane, and let it move into the shot. You use the world. You don't fight it."
He handed the bow back to her. His fingers brushed against hers, and for a split second, the contact felt different. Not transactional, not aggressive. Just human. She saw him register it too, a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation before he pulled his hand away.
"That's… actually really smart," she admitted, a genuine note of respect in her voice. "I never thought of it like that."
He gave anotherr one of his short, non-committal nods, but he held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "It's just mechanics. Physics. It's all in the books."
They stood there for a moment in the quiet clearing, the morning sun warming their skin. It was the closest thing to a peaceful, connected moment they had shared. Skylar felt a tentative hope. Maybe this could be more than just a survival arrangement. Maybe they could actually become a team.
But the moment was as fragile as the silence. Nate's eyes suddenly sharpened, losing their brief, reflective quality. He turned his head, listening to something she couldn't hear.
"The wind's shifting," he stated, his voice all business again. "We're done for now. I need to check the southern snares before the scent carries too far. You should practice the draw and release. A hundred times. No arrows. Just the motion. Muscle memory."
And just like that, the bridge he had almost crossed was withdrawn. The practical, paranoid survivor was back, walls firmly in place. The connection, however faint, was severed by the more immediate call of the wilderness and its dangers.
"Right," Skylar said, the word tasting faintly of disappointment. "Muscle memory."
He was already walking away, not looking back, his focus entirely on the tasks ahead. The lesson was over. The bonding was over. Survival was once again the only thing on the agenda.