“Everything okay with your team?”
I turn. She’s holding two mugs, steam curling between us. Crosses to the table and holds one out to me. I hadn’t even noticed she realized I was on a call.
“Yeah. They were just checking in. I need to look at a couple of the cameras.”
“Tell me about your team.”Maya cradles her mug, watching me over the rim. “How’d you all end up together?”
I settle onto the opposite end of the couch, maintaining a distance that feels increasingly pointless. “Our boss, Marlon, founded Ghost Security six years ago. He started recruiting guys he trusted from different branches—Marines, Army, Navy. Men who were good at their jobs and who wanted to go into the private sector.”
“And you?”
“Knox and I served together. Kandahar.” The word brings back a flood of memories, even after all these years. The heat. The sand. Not knowing if we’d make it through to nightfall. “Knox called me when Marlon was looking to expand the team, and Knox vouched for me.”
She’s pauses, reading something on my face. “What happened in Kandahar?”
I stare into my coffee. Most people ask out of curiosity that isn’t always polite, harboring a morbid fascination with war stories. Maya asks as if she actually wants to know.
“There was a mission. Intel went bad. We walked into an ambush.” I choose my words carefully, closing my eyes intentionally and breathing deep to calm myself about how we barely avoided carnage. “I made a split-second call. It worked out for my team, but it didn’t for another team. None of them made it.”
Maya’s eyes widen, and she bows her head. “That’s horrible. What kind of call?”
“That is still classified.” I meet her eyes, suddenly wishing I could share the story of that day with her. “Maybe someday, when we’re old, and the files are declassified, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
When we’re old. The words slip out before I can stop them. Like I’m already planning a future that extends beyond this week.
Maya doesn’t say anything. Just nods slowly, accepting the boundary and not pushing against it like everyone else does. “That’s when you decided to work in the private sector?”
“Yes. That’s when I knew I wanted to go back to civilian life.” I set down my mug. “It’s not pretty. The lengths I’ll go. But I’m honest about it. I never thought I’d work in private security, but I’ve found it suits me a lot better than any normal civilian job. I don’t know what else I’d do.”
“I think that’s what makes you good at it.” She shifts closer, almost imperceptibly. “You don’t hide who you are, and you do what needs to be done.”
The understanding in her voice loosens something in my chest. I’ve never talked about Kandahar with a woman. Never wanted to. But Maya has a way about her that makes me want to tell hereverything, including things I’ve never told anyone else. She has a hard shell but a generous, comforting core.
“Your turn.” I angle toward her. “Tell me something you don’t tell people.”
Her fingers tighten on her mug. “You already know about my mother. The marriage pressure, the guilt trips—”
“Something else. Something deeper.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think I want children.” The words come out slowly. “I’ve never been sure. Every guy I’ve dated assumed I’d change my mind eventually—like it was a phase, or I hadn’t met the right person yet. I’ve never felt that urge or the biological clock ticking that most of my friends do. My mother has names picked out for grandchildren that I’m not sure I’ll ever give her.”
She laughs, but it’s brittle. “I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. I haven’t even told my best friend, though Lucy might have her suspicions. But she’s also married to my brother, and they have no secrets between them. My mom would find out, and her disappointment is not something I’m ready to face.”
Her face is filled with vulnerability when she looks at me, like she’s bracing for judgment. She looks like she’s waiting for me to dismiss her certainty about an emotional and deeply personal decision.
Instead, something unlocks in my chest, and an emotion I’ve never put words to is suddenly clear. “I’ve never been sure either.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and I can sense she’s not sure whether she can believe me.
“About kids,” I clarify. “Everyone assumes that’s the path. Marriage, children, white picket fence. I’ve avoided relationships partly because of my father, but also because...” I trail off, searching for honest words. “Because I didn’t want to disappoint someone who wanted that life. It’s been easier to stay alone than to admit I might not want what I’m supposed to want.”
I’ve never admitted that part of my isolation isn’t just fear of becoming my father.
The relief that floods her face takes my breath away. There is a recognition in her eyes that cuts deep inside me, and my heart beats faster and expands in a way I’ve never experienced.
“Reed.” My name is barely a whisper on her lips.
I don’t plan what happens next. One moment I’m watching that relief transform her expression, and the next I’m standing in front of her, my hands cupping her jaw and tilting her face up.
