"Would if I could." He hadn't brought more than the one cigar, which he had intended to make last as long as possible by rationing it. Logan was a professional soldier, but not a particularly wealthy one. He lived primarily by the clothes on his back and had little in the way of personal possessions. The cigar and the vodka had cost him more than they were worth thanks to the army base's general having a particularly strict policy of no tolerance when it came to certain vices. It had been a marvel Logan managed as much as he had.

But not even a smoke would have made this arrangement more comfortable. Both of them were hot and a day's labor under the sun left neither of the two smelling particularly pleasant. The thick tactical gear, much of it stained in blood, made it harder still to get comfortable. A soldier eventually learned to sleep in any position, but generally they had more freedom to pick one most suitable. The rumble from him throat was not a growl, but a thoughtful hum of what might be considered priority here. The twisting of his shirt suggested she might be coming to the same thought he was.

So he unlinked his arms from around her and sat up. The outer layer was unzipped and set aside. The second and third layer, a tactical turtleneck and undershirt respectively, were pulled over his head and piled up beside him. His bare chest was a thicket of black hair, but remarkably unscarred for a career soldier. It was a small sacrifice for him to make. As a man near impossible to kill, a few layers of clothes would not make a difference in a fight. If anything, he always fought better when he was allowed to cut loose. He said nothing about it, but simply took his place back along the tarp. The connection was severed in that time, but he resumed it by touching his hand to the nape of her neck.