“Morals?”
“Yeah.” He huffs, embarrassed. “I didn’t hook up overseas. Or on leave. Ever. Tank said I was ‘single-handedly ruining the team’s reputation for debauchery.’ Tex said I was ‘emotionally constipated.’” His gray eyes lift to mine. “But the reason they never saw me with a woman was because I wasn’t looking for temporary.”
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m no virgin,” he admits quietly, “but I’ve never been that guy.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, warm and unsettling and safe all at once.
“So ‘Saint’ wasn’t about purity,” I say quietly. “It was about… intention.”
He nods once. “Yeah. That.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “I like it.”
His eyes heat, hungry, and my heartbeat jumps.
“That so?” he asks quietly.
“It suits you,” I murmur. “What would my callsign be?”
He studies me with that steady, assessing focus he uses on everything that matters.
“Dove,” he says softly.
I frown. “Doves are prey, Wyatt.”
His lips tilt in a ghost of a smile. “People think that because they’re soft. White. Pretty. Easy to underestimate.”
“And they’re not?” I challenge.
He shakes his head slowly. “Not even close.”
Wyatt shifts closer, his knee brushing mine, his voice dropping into that low, anchored register he uses when he wants me to really hear him.
“Most of the birds the military used to run messages in combat were trained rock doves. Homing pigeons. Same family. Small enough to slip past fire. Smart enough to find their way home even under fire. They flew through smoke, shrapnel, storms. They kept going when everything bigger and stronger fell out of the sky.”
A breath catches in my throat.
“They look delicate,” Wyatt says, brushing his thumb along my jaw, “but they’re loyal. Precise. Quiet. And almost impossible to break.”
My pulse stutters. “You think… that’s me?”
His eyes soften with a gentleness that unsettles something deep in my chest. “I think you’ve been flying through hell with half the world shooting at you. And you’re still here. Still yourself. Still choosing gentleness when life didn’t give you much of it.”
I swallow hard and blink fast as heat stings behind my eyes.
He leans in until I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Besides,” he adds, his mouth edging toward a smile. “Dove makes a better callsign than Homing Pigeon. Tank would never let you live that down.”
A startled laugh breaks out of me—bright, shaky, and real.
Wyatt’s answering smile is slow and proud, like he’s been waiting to earn it.
His thumb traces my lower lip, undoing me. “Brave looks like you, my little dove.”
Oh.
