Chapter 1 - Hailey
Being back at Post 317 is like slipping into the best parts of my past. All the summer fun, quietly breaking rules when my father wasn’t looking while always having guidance in the form of uniformed personnel milling around. It’s a balance of excitement and expectations that gave me a glimpse of freedom without chaos.
When Dad worked here, reforming cadets into men – as he called it – I’d get to enjoy the obstacle course, got to make friends and show them the more colorful and gentle side of life. Even if Dad wasn’t always pleased with my ‘distractions’ it was fun to get to know people who were on a different track in life and learn more about them, not to mention giving them little comforts on their more brutal days.
Now I have the chance to reconnect with the community that helped raise me.
I hear my father’s voice in my head as I settle into my dorm, hanging photos even though I’m probably not supposed to.Get a taste of military life. You’re born for it, Hailey.
My hand moves slightly, leaving the collage of my photos with friends a little tilted. I bite my thumb nail as I glance around at all the warm color I’ve brought to the otherwise gray and almost industrial dorm. There’s a time for professionalism, but I can’t imagine my home being so bare.
Just like I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for a rigid life of conformity. I sigh and sit on the quilt Mom and I knitted showing the different seasons of the year. It still smells like home – a tether I’m not sure I want to cut even if I’m not sure the military is for me.
A part of me wants to continue the “Carter legacy”, but I’m not sure there’s a place for me in real military service. Honestly, I’m not sure where my place in life is at all.
I glance at my schedule and jump. I need to organize a Veteran Appreciation event which means I don’t have any time for questioning the big picture. The Ridgehouse (the better name for Post 317) doesn’t agree with tardiness or a disrupted schedule. It moves like a well-oiled machine and it has to be kept that way.
After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure my blonde hair is tucked neatly behind my ears and my blouse lies smooth against my waist, I follow the low hum of voices down the corridor and into the activities hall. The space opens wide and warm, a mix of polished wood and soft lighting, with a well-worn bar along one wall, a lounge area dotted with deep armchairs, a few small offices tucked off to the side, and an event space already half-dressed for tonight’s celebration.
I introduce myself to a handful of volunteers, shaking hands and trading easy smiles, before landing beside Ryan and Melissa. Ryan is tall and broad-shouldered, sleeves already rolled up like he’s prepared to do the heavy lifting withoutcomplaint, while Melissa moves with brisk efficiency, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she hands out tasks like she’s been running this place forever.
We get to work organizing the photos, lining them up with care, hanging streamers twisted just right, and placing the table toppers with military precision. I’m tempted to add a bit more color, something softer, brighter—but Melissa leans in and whispers that most of the guys around here are wound so tight that too much cheer might actually make them explode. I laugh under my breath, shaking my head, and turn back to the photos, adjusting them until everything feels balanced, respectful, and just right.
“It really looks like a piece of art,” Melissa comments. “In a way that everyone can appreciate.”
I know that’s military speak for ‘it’s not too much’ which is a win in itself. I step back to look at it from further away and nearly trip over someone. I laugh softly as I apologize to Ryan who’s too busy standing at attention to notice me.
Slowly, I follow Ryan’s line of sight—and my breath catches.
He’s saluting someone. Someone familiar. If a little older. Broader. Sharper. Still unmistakable.
I just stare.
“Captain Holt!” Ryan barks, heels clicking together as he straightens into perfect posture.
CaptainWeston Holt now.
The name lands like a physical blow. My pulse stutters as my eyes take him in, drinking in details my memory never prepared me for. His shoulders are wider than I remember, his frame filled out with the kind of controlled strength that comes fromdiscipline, not show. Tall and lean still—but solid in a way that makes my stomach flip unexpectedly.
It’s definitely Wes.
His dark brown hair is cropped short, precise, though I catch the faintest streaks of gray at his temples, a detail that shouldn’t matter and yet sends a strange, heated awareness through me. He looks… formidable. Grounded. More than the man I remember. His deep blue eyes sweep over Ryan with cool assessment, missing nothing, and the authority in his posture feels almost tangible—as if the room itself has adjusted to make space for him.
He’s crisp. Sharp. Structured.
And suddenly I’m acutely aware of my own body, of the way my breath feels too shallow, of the way something deep in my chest tightens as though gravity has shifted and now points only toward him.
Seeing him like this brings back flashes of the past—Wes always distant, always composed, practicing perfection as if it were a moral obligation. But this version of him feels heavier somehow. Charged.
He hands Ryan a folder, murmurs something low I can’t hear. Ryan darts off immediately, leaving a pocket of quiet behind.
And then Wes’s gaze lifts. It finds me. Holds.
Just a second longer than necessary—but long enough to send a jolt straight through me, sharp and unexpected. My skin prickles under the weight of his attention.
Does he recognize me?
I swallow, suddenly very aware of my voice, of how small it sounds in my head before I speak. I clear my throat.
