Dust And Deception

~Three~

The man camp kitchen was quiet at this hour—mostly dark, except for the buzzing fluorescent light over the far counter. The air smelled like burnt coffee and leftover brisket. A ceiling fan creaked rhythmically, the same slow cycle it always did, too lazy to stir the heavy desert heat that still clung to everything even after midnight.

Ava padded in barefoot, coveralls tied around her waist, tank top clinging to her from the heat and the day's sweat. Her hair was pulled into a knot, half undone, and she had exactly one mission: leftovers.

She opened the fridge and found a foil-wrapped plate with her name on it—"Kellinger" scrawled in permanent marker by one of the night cooks who'd taken pity on her.

She was halfway through microwaving the brisket when the back door creaked open behind her.

Heavy boots. A low cough. The scent of dust and diesel.

Levi Carson stepped into the kitchen, stripped down to a dark T-shirt and cargo pants, his knuckles still smudged with hydraulic fluid. His hair was damp, like he'd just washed off the worst of the day and called it good enough. He didn't look surprised to see her.

"Guess we had the same idea," he said, voice lower than usual, rough from too many hours in the heat and too few sips of water.

Ava gave a lopsided smile. "There was a rumor about leftover brisket. I didn't want to miss my shot."

Levi moved toward the coffee pot, poured what was probably the worst coffee in West Texas into a cracked mug, and leaned against the counter.

"Figured you'd be asleep by now."

"I tried," she said. "But my brain's still spinning. Couldn't stop thinking about that SkyTrak."

He gave a short nod. "Could've ended bad."

"But it didn't," she said, crossing her arms. "We worked it out."

He sipped his coffee. "You always push through like that?"

She looked at him, studying his face in the half-light. "I have to. This place doesn't slow down for anyone. And it sure as hell doesn't hand out second chances."

He didn't reply right away. The microwave beeped, loud in the stillness. Ava popped it open, grabbed the plate, and set it on the tiny table in the corner.

"Hungry?" she asked.

Levi hesitated, then grabbed a fork from the drawer and joined her.

They ate in silence for a few minutes—comfortably. The brisket was dry, the mashed potatoes lukewarm, but something about the quiet made it better than anything they'd had all day.

After a moment, Levi leaned back and looked at her—not like a coworker, but like someone trying to read a map by moonlight.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

Ava raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You thought I'd fold the first time I chipped a nail?"

"I thought you'd leave after day two," he admitted. "Most do."

She poked at her potatoes. "Well, sorry to disappoint."

He smirked. "You didn't."

The words hung there for a second—unexpected, unpolished, real.

Ava's heart thudded once, hard. She didn't know if it was the hour, the way the kitchen felt like its own little bubble, or the fact that Levi Carson was finally letting his guard down. But she felt it. That shift. Like they'd stepped off solid ground into something unspoken.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, quieter now.

He nodded.

"Why do you always look like you've already lived through the worst day of your life?"

Levi's jaw flexed. He looked down at his coffee like it might answer for him.

"Because I have," he said finally. "And I'm not in a rush to live through another."

Ava didn't press. Didn't need to. She just nodded once, understanding more in the silence than she ever could've with questions.

He looked up at her then, something open and raw flickering behind his eyes.

"You're not just good at what you do, Ava," he said. "You give a damn. That's rare."

She smiled, slow and tired. "Don't get used to it."

A long pause.

Then, softly—like she was testing the words before saying them—Ava asked, "You ever think about getting out of this line of work?"

Levi looked at her for a long time. "Every day," he said. "But I haven't yet."

Another beat passed. The silence stretched thin, not awkward—just full.

Then he stood, took his plate to the sink, and rinsed it off like he wasn't in a rush to leave but knew he probably should.

"You need anything," he said, turning back to her, "doesn't matter the hour—just knock on my door. Third trailer on the right."

Ava stood too, slowly. "Noted."

He paused at the door. "Night, Colorado."

"Night, Carson."

And then he was gone.

Ava stood there a while longer, listening to the buzz of the light, the hum of the fridge, and the pounding of her own heart.

Outside, the desert wind kicked up again, whispering against the walls like it knew something neither of them had said out loud.