She turns slowly, eyes burning with something between disbelief and exhaustion. Her look says it loud and clear: You really don’t get it, do you?
“Can we just go? I’m not in the mood to argue, Nick.”
I grip the wheel and fire up the engine. “Same. Sure thing, princess.”
“Stop at a liquor store on the way,” she says, reclining like the car seat’s her escape hatch.
“You sure that’s a good idea? You just found out you’re diabetic.”
“I think it’s a great fucking idea,” she says, voice drenched in false cheer.
“You trying to die or something?”
“Hey, no one gave you shit for joining the army. So don’t give me shit. We’re all gonna die someday, and I guarantee you—I’m just as much a survivor as you are.”
She keeps saying that.
Survivor.
Like she’s trying to prove it to herself as much as she is to me, I want to press, to crack her open and see what’s bleeding underneath, but I let it go. Not because I don’t care—because I do. But right now, I’m not ready for a fight, and she doesn’t need another one.
“I’ve got vodka at my place. If you’re gonna drink, do it there. I still think it’s a bad idea, but at least you won’t drink yourself into a stupor by the lake.”
“What are you, my dad?”
“No. Your mentor. Because you need one.”
But what she really needed was a friend. And it was obvious she never had one—Not because she didn’t want any, but because somewhere along the way, someone taught her no one was safe. And I wasn’t leaving until I figured out who did.
10
MELANIE
Something warm pressed against my lips. Wet. Sloppy. Gentle at first, almost sweet. A sleepy smile tugged at my mouth as I leaned into it, still hovering in that hazy space between dream and waking. Then the tongue got more aggressive, smearing slickness across my chin.
What the hell…? Nick?
My eyes flew open, heart thudding, and I met a pair of wide, innocent eyes.
Loco.
He panted, proud of himself, his tail wagging like a flag of triumph.
“Seriously, Loco,” I groaned, dragging my hand across my face to wipe the slobber. “Gross.”
He barked once, spun in a tight circle, then launched off the bed and trotted toward the door, letting me know he needed to go outside. As I sat up, a moment of disorientation hit me like a wave. This wasn’t the lakehouse. The sheets beneath me were still tucked at the corners, military-neat. The only sign I’d even been here was the hollowed impression of my body in the mattress. Had I passed out the moment I hit the bed?
God, what even happened last night?
My gaze swept the room, trying to gather the scattered pieces of memory. The place was tidy, masculine, stripped-down but intentional. Then I saw it—on the desk—a photo. Nick, in uniform, knelt beside a German Shepherd, and one arm was slung over the dog’s neck like they were brothers. Both were grinning—Nick’s grin was real, kind, and unguarded. The dog looked like he’d follow him into fire.
It hit me low, in the gut. That kind of bond. That kind of loyalty.
And it was the only photo in the room.
No pictures of family. No friends. Just him and the dog.
I bit down on the emotion rising in my chest. I hadn’t seen a dog around here.
