He watches me.

He thinks I don't notice, but I do. Survival, in my profession, depends upon a man's skill at observation.

He's never trusted me, and why should he? They are good, honest men. Heroes. What am I but a scoundrel and a rake?

He stands tall. Strong. Alone. What would I give to be welcomed into his small circle of comrades? To earn his respect? To be more than a friend?

I feel his ice blue eyes on me and I wish ...

What does it mean when I consider my highest accolade earned to be Chris Larabee's smile?