“Why would they do this?” she whispered.
“To scare you.” His tone hardened. “And they succeeded. That’s why I’m coming. I left the wedding right after I realized you did.”
She closed her eyes, her throat tight. “You didn’t have to follow me.”
“Yes,” he said, his breath hard. “I did.”
The line dropped into silence for several beats, the empty air heavy with the weight of everything between them.
Everything almost-kissed. Everything unsaid. Everything she still felt.
She swallowed. “Just . . . keep talking. Please.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Okay.” A breath, a rustle like he was shifting the phone from one hand to the other. “You want a story?”
“Yes,” she whispered, pretty sure his voice was the only thing keeping her from a total breakdown.
“All right,” he said, settling into a tone she hadn’t heard from him in years—lighter, like he was rummaging through memories he rarely bothered to open. “When Jackson and I were both at Fort Carson for a seven-month overlap, the base commandermade the mistake of assigning us to the same PT rotation. Big oversight.”
Despite the fear still coiled under her ribs, the corner of her mouth twitched. “Why?”
“Because Jackson was a Cavalry Scout,” he said dryly. “Which means he believed—still believes—that stealth solves ninety percent of life’s problems. Including 0500 group runs.”
“Oh boy,” she said, already bracing.
“Yeah. Exactly. One morning he shows up in full camo paint—for PT.Tells me we’re conducting a morale operation. Before I can talk him out of it, he disappears into the tree line beside the running trail. Vanishes. Like a forest cryptid.”
Norah pressed a hand to her forehead, half laughing, half horrified. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Two minutes later, he drops out of a pine tree onto the trail behind the platoon sergeant, lets out this awful rebel yell, and nearly causes a thirteen-man pileup. The sergeant pulled a hamstring. Three guys face-planted. One screamed so loud someone thought we were under attack.”
“Jackson did this?” she whispered, incredulous.
“Oh, he was proud of it,” Marshall said. “He called itfield-testing surprise engagement tactics. I called ithow to get both of us reassigned in under ten minutes.”
“Were you?”
“Almost. The only reason we survived was because the commander thought it was funny. Said he showed initiative.” He paused. “Pretty sure that was code forI don’t get paid enough to deal with you two.”
Norah’s breath eased, her pulse steadying with the sound of his voice, the warmth tucked beneath every word. And somewhere in the middle of his story—between Jackson dropping out of trees and Marshall bracing for reprimand—ten minutes slipped quietly away.
Then she heard his footsteps in the hallway.
A gentle knock.
“It’s me.”
Her lungs collapsed with relief and Norah rushed over to yank the door open.
Marshall stepped inside without a word, and for one suspended second Norah thought—even hoped—he might reach for her.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
His body went taut, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping the apartment with the sharp, precise focus she remembered from years ago—before she understood what missions did to him, before she learned that he always assessed threats before comfort.
She wasn’t surprised. She wished she was.
He moved past her, not unkindly, but with a purpose that left no room for hesitation. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, the white of his shirt stark against the wreckage of her living room. The heat coming off him was almost palpable, but he didn’t pause long enough for her to feel it. Not directly.
