“I clipped the mailbox at full speed and went flying like a ragdoll straight into a hedge. She laughed, snapped a picture, and ghosted me the very next day.”
That was the moment she laughed—the real, genuine kind of laughter. For a heartbeat, it was as if time slowed down. Nothing else mattered except the sound of her laughter and the way her head fell back in delight for just a moment.
“You totally deserved that,” she teased, her thumb tracing the rim of her glass.
“I absolutely did,” I replied, still grinning. “My ego is still recovering from that one.”
She shook her head, a playful smile lingering on her lips. I watched her fingers dance nervously around hersilver ring, noticing how she kept her guard up, never letting it drop for more than a few fleeting seconds.
I craved more. More of her.
“So,” I said, my tone softening. “What about you? Share something I don’t know.”
In an instant, I saw it—the shift. A flicker of hesitation, like a switch had been flipped. Her gaze dropped, her shoulders tensed, and her smile dimmed just enough for me to catch it.
“Not much to tell,” she replied, too casually.
I leaned in closer.
“Come on. Give me something. What’s your favorite childhood memory? Or something you got in trouble for?”
Her jaw tightened. She gazed out over the city, as if it might offer her an escape from my question.
“I don’t really do childhood memories,” she finally said after a moment. “Or favorites. Or… much.”
And there it was.
The wall.
I didn’t push, but I also didn’t retreat.
“I just want to know you,” I said, my voice sincere. “Not the mission reports. Not what others think they know. Just you.”
She met my eyes, and for a heartbeat, it felt like we were no longer at a table. It felt like we were teetering on the edge of something raw and real.
“I don’t open up, Noah,” she said softly. “I don’t let people in. Not really.”
“Why not?”
She looked down at her drink.
“Because when I do, it never ends well.” A pause lingered between us. “People don’t want the real me; they want the idea of me. The image. The soldier. The mystery.”
I leaned across the table, lowering my voice, desperate to bridge the gap.
“I want you. Not the idea, not the image. Just the woman who laughed at my silly bike story.”
Her eyes darted up, searching mine, as if trying to uncover a hidden trap.
But there was none.
Yet still, she looked away, the walls returning to their rightful place, though I could see the crack in them.
In that moment, an understanding dawned on me. She wasn’t pushing me away because she felt nothing; she was pushing me away because she felt everything.
And that terrified her.
She fell silent.
