I picture her at eighteen—smart, stubborn Abby with her hands shoved into the sleeves of my jacket because she refused to admit she was cold. I picture her opening a message, her heart cracking open with no way to brace for it.
I should be furious at the lie. At the person who sent it. At the years stolen.
But mostly, I’m furious at myself.
Because even if I didn’t knowwhyshe pulled away, I accepted it too easily. I let my worst fear—that I wasn’t enough—become the truth I lived with.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the folded piece of paper I’ve carried longer than some of my deployments.
Her letter.
The edges are soft from use. From being unfolded and refolded on nights when sleep wouldn’t come. From being held like proof that something good once existed.
I don’t open it. I don’t need to. I know every word.
Be safe. Come back to me.
I laugh quietly, the sound sharp in the cold.
“I tried,” I murmur to the river. “I just didn’t know how.”
My phone buzzes.
For a split second, my heart stutters like it’s learned a bad habit.
Abby.
Daisy’s asleep. If you’re still awake… do you want to come over?
No promises. No expectations. Just an opening.
I don’t hesitate this time.
Her house is quiet when I arrive, the porch light casting a soft halo over the snow. I knock once, then wait, suddenly aware of how hard my heart is pounding.
She opens the door wearing leggings and one of those oversized sweaters that looks impossibly soft. Her hair is down now, loose around her shoulders. She looks tired.
She looks real.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She steps aside to let me in. The warmth hits me first, then the smell—clean laundry, vanilla, something faintly familiar that I can’t place until I realize it’s her. Just her.
“Daisy?” I ask quietly.
“Asleep,” Abby replies. “Out cold.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. I toe off my boots and hang my jacket, the motion oddly domestic.
She watches me like she’s bracing for impact.
“Do you want tea?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She moves into the kitchen, filling the kettle, her movements slower than earlier, like she’s finally letting herself feel the weight of the day. I lean against the counter, the same spot as before, and the memory of her mouth on mine flashes hot and vivid.
