He nods once. The wood pops softly.
“We were out on a routine escort,” he starts, voice low and steady in that way that makes my chest ache. “Nothing flashy. Nothing that should’ve gone sideways. I was driving second vehicle. Sun was…too bright. Heat coming off the road like you could fall into it.”
He pauses. I don’t rush him.
“We missed the signs,” he says. “That’s the part that sticks.” His fingers curl, like they’re remembering the feel of a steering wheel. “The kids who weren’t on the street. The shutter that closed too fast. We rolled right into it like a gift.”
My throat goes tight.
“The blast took the lead truck,” he continues. “Man in front—my friend—was gone before I could even process the sound. After that it was noise. Dust. Smoke. Training.” He exhales through his nose. “You move. You do what you’re supposed to. And then later, when it’s quiet, you’ve got this loop in your head. All the ways you should’ve seen it coming.”
I want to reach for him so badly my fingers tingle.
“Christmas was a few weeks later,” he says. “We were back at base. Somebody put up tinsel. Somebody played carols on a busted speaker. There was a folding chair whereheshould’ve been sitting.”
He finally looks at me, eyes darker than the room.
“Holiday lights don’t sit right after that,” he says simply. “You look at a tree and all you can see is the empty space around it.”
My heart cracks cleanly in two.
I don’t offer platitudes. I don’t sayyou couldn’t have knownoryou did your best,even though both are probably true. I just let myself move, closing the space between us inch by inch.
“Rhett,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”
His jaw flexes. “It was a long time ago.”
“It doesn’t have to stop hurting to be old.”
We’re close now. Our knees almost touch. The fire hums, and the wind outside the walls might as well not exist. It’s just us and the quiet.
I reach out, giving him all the time in the world to pull away.
He doesn’t.
My fingers rest lightly over his hand where it’s fisted on his thigh. Warm. Solid. He untangles his hand slowly, flips it, and threads his fingers through mine.
The simple contact sends a shock through me, hot and fragile and huge.
“I like it here,” I admit, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “With you. Even with the storm. Even with the axe and the chainsaws and the couch that probably tried to murder you last night.”
His mouth twitches. “It failed.”
“I’m glad,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. Once. Twice. Each pass is a question.
“Ivy,” he says, and I feel my name in the center of my chest. “You’re going back to Saint Pierce when the road opens.”
“Yes.” My voice wobbles. “That’s the plan.”
“You got a life there.”
“I do.”
He nods slowly, like he’s testing the shape of the truth between us.
“Doesn’t change this,” he murmurs.
