Red doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t pat my hand or tell me I’m wrong; he just watches me like only he can.
I keep going because if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve. “I want to open my own bakery, but every landlord who looks at me thinks the same thing:Sure, cupcake, good luck with that.It’s hard to be taken seriously when the world thinks you’re a joke.”
The Santa dress, the hat, and the stupid socks. My cheeks flame at how everyone sees me.
How Red must see me.
“It’s not just the world, either. Sometimes it’s me. I get loud and flirty, so no one has a chance to hurt me first.”
There. It’s out. My heart feels heavier than it did five minutes ago, my eyes are stinging, and I hate it, because I prefer humor—it doesn’t make you emotional.
Red sets his fork down. “People are idiots.”
I laugh. “It’s not a Hallmark card, but thanks.”
He shakes his head. “Since you’ve been here, you’ve cooked, cleaned, kept your head in a storm, and made the dog fall in love with you in twenty minutes.” He holds my gaze. “You’re not a joke.”
My throat swells, and I look away, blinking up at the ceiling until the prickle fades. “Okay, well, now I’m going to cry over eggs; how embarrassing.”
“You’re fine.” It’s quiet. “Eat.”
So, I do.
When the plates are empty and the coffee’s gone, I stack dishes at the sink and take a deep breath.It’s now or never.“Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To say something true.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “You don’t have to dump your life story on me. Just one thing, so I’m not the only one out here baring all.”
My heart hammers in my chest. Typical Cookie, determined to get a reaction from the grumpy mountain man.
He leans back in his chair, his eyes on the window. Snow sifts off a branch and slides past the glass.
“I don’t sleep much. There’s too much noise in my head.”
I still. “From...?”
“Work.” He lifts one shoulder. “I did a job that didn’t end when I left it. Friends didn’t come home. Other people did, and they shouldn’t have.”
He doesn’t look at me, but that’s fine. I dry my hands on a towel and stay where I am, praying he continues.
The silence stretches, and I think that's all I'm getting. Then he speaks again, quieter.
"There was this kid. Martinez. He was only twenty-two, fresh out of training, scared shitless but trying not to show it." Red winces. "I was supposed to keep him alive. That was the job—get in, get intel, get everyone out."
He continues to stare at the window, but I don't think he's seeing snow anymore.
"I made the call. I told the team to move when I should've waited. Martinez went first." His hands curl into fists on his thighs. "He didn't make it ten feet."
My heart aches, but I don't interrupt.
"I got the rest of them out but brought Martinez home in a bag. His mom thanked me at the funeral." His voice goes flat. "She thanked me for bringing her son home."
He's quiet for so long I almost reach for him, but then he continues.
"So, I got out. I came back here, but the noise didn't stop. It just got a little quieter." His mouth tightens. "People make it louder. They want to know how you're doing, if you're okay, if you need anything. Like talking about it will fix what's broken."
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are raw. "I can't fix it—I can't bring him back or change the call I made. So, I stopped letting people ask."
